Slices of Life, Sleepyside Style
by bundysbaby
Summary: Various self-contained stories about life with our favorite Bob-Whites. They are all mostly unconnected one-shots. Disclaimer: I do not own or profit from Trixie Stories!
1. Moonlight & Crabapples

Moonlight & Crabapples

Helen Belden glanced up sharply as her husband Peter made a low sound in his throat that sounded suspiciously like he was hocking up a hairball. This unpleasant noise was swiftly followed by a hissed "Helen! Come here and look at this!"

Sighing softly to herself, Helen abandoned the book she was reading in bed to join Peter at their bedroom window – the one that overlooked the orchard. He had the cheerful curtain slightly switched back, and even by the dim light of the full moon shining through the slit, she noted the set lines in his face.

Peeking over his shoulder, Helen saw what suddenly got her husband's tidy whities in a bunch. Lit only by the soft, silver glow of the moon, Jim and Trixie were entwined in what could only be described as a _very_ passionate embrace.

"They're kissing, Peter, in the moonlight in the orchard. How romantic," Helen sighed, bringing a slender hand to her heart and pressing there.

Peter snorted out his opinion of that statement and shoved the curtain back into place. "He could kiss her without…without that!" he spat out, perturbed, one hand flung toward the now curtained scene playing out among the crabapple trees.

Helen flopped down on their marital bed. Oh boy. She gently closed her book and placed it on the nightstand, along with her reading glasses. Reading glasses! She was much too young for reading glasses, and there would be no more reading for her tonight. "We kissed – and did some other, more naughty things – in the moonlight, in the orchard, she reminded him evenly. "One of which resulted in Mr. Robert Belden, if you recall."

Peter sat down on his side of the bed and looked at the small smile tipping the corners of Helen's oh-so-delectable lips. She was being awfully sanguine about things! "But Helen, he's got his big freckled paw splayed right across her as…butt!" He didn't want to add any more money to the swear jar. As it was, the dollars were marching right out of his pocket and into the jar at an astounding rate. Another reason Jim Frayne was on his list.

"Peter. They are _married_." She stressed the last word and rolled her eyes. And just to add a little more fuel to the fire, the little devil in Helen prompted her to add, "And I believe that marriage certificate confers the right for Jim to, shall we say, put his big freckled paw wherever Trixie wants him to."

He blew out an aggrieved breath before leaning back against the headboard and closing his eyes. "Yeah," he stated dejectedly, "but he doesn't have to flaunt it!"


	2. The Temptation of Brian Belden

**The Temptation of Brian Belden**

Brian Belden, M.D. was more than exhausted. Both body and mind were entering that almost delirious phase, when the world started looking very wavy and unreal; it was all he could do to remain upright. He trudged into what was sarcastically referred to as the Residents' Lounge, but was nothing more than a couple of army surplus cots shoved into a supply closet, along with a tiny table and cast-off chair. He didn't bother to step out of his Crocs; too weary to manage that feat, he collapsed face downward and bargained with the universe to please, please, just give him an hour. Just one solid, uninterrupted hour.

15 minutes later, the telephone in the room was blaring out its request for his presence in the ER. He sprang to life, walking swiftly down the deserted hospital corridors, his mind still blurry with the remnants of sleep.

Four years of college. Four years of medical school. A year interning. Now halfway through three years of residency in Family Practice. He was 28 years old and felt 90. He had a small apartment, rent-free, in the building that housed married residents. He had a beautiful wife whom he rarely saw, and when he did, was too tired to cherish her in the way she deserved. Honey never complained though. She never complained she was stuck in a ratty old building in an apartment that wasn't much larger than her old bedroom in the Manor House. She just looked into his tired eyes, violet smudges in direct contrast to the warm dark brown, and clucked about his unhealthy pallor. For the few days a month he was home full-time, the few hours he was otherwise, she showed him in so many small ways how much she loved him. How much she supported his dream. And how much she missed him. Missed _them_.

He talked about it with her before they married, the life of a resident. Yeah, there were all those studies showing that residents worked 80 to 100 hour weeks, often with little or no sleep for 48 hours at a clip. Dangerous mistakes were made, and every so often there would be some big expose on television or in the newspapers about the slave labor residents were forced to endure. For a while there would be a lot of talk about reform, new laws; then it would slip past public consciousness and everything would remain status quo. For all the blathering and posturing, hospitals were not about to forgo cheap labor. Not when it would have such a dramatic effect on the bottom line.

Brian realized he was luckier than most of the residents he interned with. Most would have crushing debt after their board certification. His nimble brain allowed him to attend pre-med on a full scholarship; his grades and MCAT scores resulted in a few cobbled together scholarships and grants that were enough to see him though medical school. He was now drawing a pittance as a resident, and Honey drew a salary from the Frayne-Belden Detective Agency. Not a whole lot yet; but the Agency was establishing a sterling reputation and referrals were beginning to build.

A few hours later, Brian made the slow shuffle back to the lounge. He was edging past exhaustion now, gaining his second (or third or fourth) wind. Mark Mendham, another one of the residents, was occupying the lone chair, shuffling through some charts, all bright-eyed and humming along to song only he could hear. He glanced over at Brian, sniffed and stated the very obvious: "Dr. Belden, you look like something the cat dragged in."

Brian was not amused. "Well, you try being on call for 24 hours straight with 15 minutes of sleep." Brian stretched out the cot, his feet hanging most uncomfortably over the edge.

"Oh, Belden, I've been here for 36 hours and you don't see me looking like that." Brian snorted out his opinion. His voice, muffled as he was turned to the wall, snapped back. "Yeah, well what rotation are you? Rehab? It's not like they have any emergency Rehab patients."

Mark smiled. "Nope. I'm on ob/gyn. And those babies wait for no man." He studied Brian's drooping shoulders and exhausted posture and came to a decision. Approaching the bed, he touched Brian's shoulder softly and murmured "I can help you."

Brian turned swiftly and Mark pressed something into his hand. "Magic, man, magic." He shot a smile over his shoulders and sauntered out, shutting off most of the lights save one.

Brian looked blearily at the object in his hand. A pill bottle, with a couple of pills inside. Confused, Brian shook them out into his hand. Two orange capsules, printed with the number 30, and the name Adderall. Brian closed his long fingers around the capsules and glanced around the room, almost expecting the DEA to come charging in.

Amphetamines; perfectly legal to treat ADHD and narcolepsy, but absolutely illegal to possess or ingest otherwise.

The full scope of what Mark did to stay awake and alert hit him; so that's why Mark was always so perkymerrypeppy. Maybe that's why a couple of the other residents also never seemed to tire. Never seemed to be on the right on the precipice of making a big mistake and actually hurting someone they were supposed to help.

Brian sat up on the cot, one hand clutching the empty pill bottle, and the other fisted around the two capsules that promised instant alertness. He sat there in the semi-dark, pondering what it would be like to be Brian Belden again, not Brian Belden, M.D., the living dead. What it would be like to go home to Honey and sweep her into his arms and to their bed, instead of slogging in, giving her a quick peck on the head and sleeping for days.

He sat there quietly and opened his hand, staring at the two small pills that weighed so much. Instant salvation. He came to his decision and swiftly exited the room.


	3. Matters of the Heart

**Matters of the Heart**

Let me take you, Dear Reader, on a magic-carpet ride to the not-quite clean-but-not-yet disorderly student apartment of one Beatrix H. Belden, amateur detective and criminal justice major.

We are not expected, oh, no. We are going in to play voyeur for a bit – and since we are magic, the good Ms. Belden will neither see nor hear us, although the reverse is not true. As we pass through the wall an into her space, we note that Beatrix, or Trixie, as she prefers, is hunched over her kitchen table, staring down at the contents so intently, had we crashed into the room playing "Hot Blooded" on kazoos, it would not have broken her concentration.

What could possibly hold such devotion and focus?

If you were to ask her fellow Bob-Whites, they would take bets on three things: (a) more vexing math problems; (b) finishing up some cold case homework; or (c) some really hot pictures of one James Winthrop Frayne II at the lake from last summer.

But we're voyeurs, right, Dear Reader? – so let us dip down a bit and see what is causing Trixie's brow to knit, emphasizing that little I-want line that Jim always wants to smooth away.

Too bad we could not have taken those bets with the Bob-Whites…it's neither a troublesome math problem, nor grisly crime scene recaps, and Jim's six-pack is nowhere in sight.

Ah yes, the laptop is there, but not her papers due. Magazines and books and newspapers are piled in drunken piles, listing dangerously and perilously close to avalanching to the floor. There are pages ripped out of said newspapers and magazines, lots of little yellow sticky notes and a number of broken pencils. Trixie compresses her mouth with a little frown, puffs her cheeks and blows out. What has gotten our dear girl in such turmoil?

Her laptop is displays her results to a quiz – dismal results, as evidenced by the frowny face – entitled, "Are You Sexy Enough to Get HIM?"

The table is littered with issues of Cosmopolitan and Vogue; Glamour Magazine; books entitled _"He's Just Not That Into You" _and _"The Rules." _ Articles are strewn hither and yon – "Can Childhood Sweethearts Make an Adult Romance Work?" and advice columns on everything from what perfume men like to smell the most _(she refused to smell like a cinnamon bun)_ to a dissertation on whether men really care if you're wearing Victoria's Secret lingerie or would they be just as happy removing a Monday thong from Wal-Mart?

Trixie startles us by jumping up, her arms outstretched and palms up, her small but tapering fingers in the classic WTH? pose. We slink back a bit as she mutters irritably to herself. "All this research and I am more confused than when I started!" Jabbing at one paper with her short (but clean) nail, she continues speaking aloud: "This one says be aggressive! This one says be passive! This one says have curves and this one," she stabbed that pretty nail at each offending magazine or article, "says you can't be too thin!"

Defeated, her shoulders slump as she again voices her thoughts aloud, "I need Honey. Or Di."

So let us whisk away, Dear Reader, and observe how this little drama is resolved.

Trixie answered the knock on her door so swiftly, Di's fist was in mid-air to knock again. "What's wrong Trix? You sounded upset on the phone. Is everything ok at Crabapple Farm?" It wasn't like Trixie to be so agitated, and she refused to tell Di what was wrong. As ever, Di dropped everything and rushed over, and a light sheen of perspiration coated her face.

Trixie dropped her hand from the door and looked at Di with a quizzical expression. "Trix– it's not Jim or Honey is it?" Di gasped, her hand scrubbing at her heart. Trixie stepped aside to let her pass.

"It is Di, it's Jim."

"Oh my God! What happened is he ok? I need to sit down!" Di strode into the apartment on rubbery knees, wondering again how Trixie could look so composed. After all, it was _Jim. _Then again, this was the woman who stared him down at the age of thirteen when he had a gun pointed at her head.__

"Why wouldn't Jim be ok?" Trixie looked confused. She sat next to Di on the couch and offered her a Kleenex.

"Well, you said it was Jim, and I thought maybe he had the accident," Di began, blotting her face softly while tears filled her soft lavender eyes.

"What accident, Di? I never said Jim had an accident."

Di stopped in mid-dab. "Ok Trixie, would you mind telling me what this is about? You call me and tell me to get my butt over here as soon as possible; something has happened you can't speak about over the phone. I rushed here like a crazy woman imagining everything, well just everything!"

"Oh my God, Di, I apologize. Although I did want to speak to you right away, I never assumed you would think there was an accident and something happened either to my family or Jim or Honey."

Di put her elbows on her knees and looked at Trix and sighed. "No, you wouldn't think that, Trixie. What is so darned urgent?"

Trixie looked down at her clasped hands, suddenly shy and unable to reveal her real reason for calling Di for help. After all, there was that pact she, Honey and Di had made so long ago when they started dating each other's brother. "Perhaps it would be better if I allowed you review my research, Di."

"It's not like, blood and guts and ooky stuff?"

Trixie rose and stepped to the dining room table, gesturing over the unruly piles of stuff there. "It's all here."

Di gazed at her friend and walked over to the table and began to rummage through the contents. "_InStyle_? _Cosmo_? Victoria's Secret catalogue?" Di spoke incredulously. She turned to a red-faced Trixie, her hand clutching the "Can You Make Your Man into a Sex Machine" quiz. "Okay, where is Trixie Belden and what have you done with her?"

"But that's it, Di," Trixie gestured at the table. "That's what I want to talk to you about."

Di bowed her head and rubbed her temples with her free hand. "Ok Trix. Spill it. And it better be worth a near coronary."

Jim Frayne hated the weekends when he had to go home to Sleepyside without her, hated the weekends when he and Trixie had to be apart. Not that he never wanted to see his parents, or Patch or exercise Jupe, mind you, but it was those times he needed to keep busy to keep from thinking. And imagining. And having to take cold shower after cold shower.

At least if Mart, Brian or Dan was home, they could do some guy things – go hit a few balls; ride through the preserve; see a movie. But they were still in the City, and Jim was at loose ends.

Instead, he was sitting in Wimpy's at _their_ table, drinking a cup of coffee he really didn't want, although the key lime pie was excellent. If Trixie was here, he could wave his fork under her nose and try to tempt her to open those soft, gorgeous lips…whoa! Where was he? Yes. Pie. Lime. Delicious. Trixie didn't like creamy pies, or so she said. On rare occasions she ordered a tiny dish of ice cream with a dollop of whipped cream. He loved when she did that – tiny smears of whipped cream on those lips and that little pink tongue darting out to lick it off. Sometimes she closed her eyes as she spooned the dessert into her mouth and moaned ever so lightly, her face reflecting pure sensual bliss…

"…bill, Jim," the waitress was saying as she put his check down on the table. She didn't know what he was thinking, but wished to herself she was 20 years younger and maybe then she could give that Trixie Belden a run for her money. Ah, who was she kidding? The whole town knew that Trix belonged to him from the time she found him in that ratty old mansion at the then tender age of thirteen. The dreamy expression on his face when she brought over the check – heck, she wished she had a man who looked like that to dream about her once in a while.

Jim sighed, stood up and threw the money and tip down on the table. Well, there was always Playstation, except this time, he assured himself, he was not going to imagine Trixie as Lara Croft, Tomb Raider in that skin-tight leather outfit. Nope.

"What!" Di screeched. "Repeat that Trixie! I think I may have entered the Twilight Zone."

Trixie shook her head, sending her gold ringlets bouncing. "Gee, Di, I think there may be a few bats in New Mexico that didn't hear you." She could never understand why Honey and Di felt it necessary to emit high-pitched squeals at good news, bad news and winning beauty pageants. A simple thank you or Oh! would suffice.

"_Trixie Belden…"_

Trix took a deep breath. "Di, you know me better than almost anyone except Honey. Over the past several weeks, I have come to conclude that um, I am in dire need of some help."

"What kind of help, Trixie?"

"The kind of help only you and Honey can provide." Trixie took a deep gulp of air. "You know, girlie stuff. The kind of stuff that will make Jim's head swim." A quick rose-colored flush traveled across her cheekbones.

_I may have died and gone to heaven_ Di thought. _She is just so clueless._

"I need to…to entice Jim over that freakin' honorable line of his. I have _needs_. I know you and Honey have with Mart and Brian. Can you help? I bow to your greater expertise in matters of the heart."

Di stood, and only a strong dose of the willpower she developed kept her from doing a happy dance.

"Grab your debit cards, Trix, and let's go get Honey. Shopping spree time!"

Trixie sat on her bed, exhausted by the marathon shopping trip. She was surrounded by bags and boxes and tissue paper, and was sure her bank account would never recover from the shock.

She felt rather silly now, as Honey and Di mapped out a plan for her to – let's call it what it really is – seduce Jim. Her nerve faltered for a moment, but she straightened her shoulders. One thing she learned was, you had to defer to people with greater expertise at times. Honey and Di surely had _that_. Gleeps, they were engaged and she and Jim had barely made it to first base. So, let the first salvo begin!

Jim Frayne was knocking impatiently at Trixie's door. "Hey Trix! Ya in there?"

"Door's open Jim, come on in. I'll be out in a minute."

The tall redhead shook his head. _How many times do I have to tell her not to leave her door unlocked?_

"I saw you park your car, so I unlocked it before you came up." _What was she, a mind reader now?_

"Where are you?"

"In the bedroom. Be out in a minute. My math homework is finished and on the kitchen table." Of course, the table was newly bare and set with a charming centerpiece of organic fruit. Jim grabbed an apple, bit down hard and began chewing as he strolled into the living room holding the messy scrabbles that passed as the dreaded math homework.

"What's taking you so long, Trix?" The $4.00 organic apples Honey bought and kept in stock didn't taste any different from the ones he got at the local supermarket for $2.99 a bag.

"Trying on a new outfit. Maybe you can give me your opinion as to how I look."

_Oh jeez, I hope it's not one of those orangey 1950s dresses again, _Jim thought desperately, as he pitched the core directly into her wet recycle bin. _Still have those magic hands, old man!_

"Honey and Di invited me out for something they called girls' night out and insisted I purchase some new clothes. What do you think?"

Jim's head was bent over the homework as she entered the room, and he looked up as she stood in front of him.

His eyes started at the impossibly high Manolo's (he watched enough of _Sex in the City_ to identify the designer) slowly up those incredibly long legs and then up more and then up – _where __**was**__ the hem of this dress?_ – finally reaching the dress, starting somewhere at mid-thigh and wound 'round so tight like a mummy, but a mummy with those curves and that cleavage that was barely contained to creamy, exposed shoulders and finally to her face, her beautiful face, all done up expertly and those glorious gold ringlets piled high…

The homework fluttered from his hand as he felt the punch of desire directly in his solar plexus. His heart slammed right up against his chest, and his breath came shallowly and fast. His knees wanted to buckle as every bit of blood drained directly to, well, you know where to.

"Jim?" Trixie saw the shock on his face and in his emerald eyes, followed swiftly by a desire burning so brilliantly she nearly ran back to the bedroom in sudden shyness.

His mouth was dry, throat constricted, and the red haze of desire seemed to be clouding his brain. She smiled tentatively at him, cocked one hip and slid her hand down her side to rest there. "Jim?"

He was drowning. He could never _ever_ let her out of the house in that dress. "You," it came out hoarsely, "you look uh, _Sexy. Desirable. Gorgeous. _great Trix. More than great, you look, uh, beautiful." His hands were itching, itching to touch all that alabaster skin, itching to pull off that dress. Itching to cover up all that skin that should be only his to view, his to touch, his to kiss. He shoved them in his pockets.

She stepped closer to him, only wobbling a little. With those sky-high heels on, they were practically eye to eye. Her blue ones were slumberous, clouded with something he had never seen there, something he thought he might _never_ see there. In a minute he was going to drop to the floor and begin groveling at her feet.

She stepped even closer, close enough so he could smell her scent, close enough to feel her body heat through the thin, stretchy fabric of her dress. She languidly, gracefully, lifted her arms to her head and pulled out the pins holding her hair, dropping them, one by one, onto the floor.

He was mesmerized by her actions, and desire flashed through his veins. She shook her head slowly, and all that glorious hair spread out, slightly mussed as if…

"Why Mr. Frayne," she whispered, her husky voice just adding to his delirium. "Do you know you trashed my homework? Should I require a penalty?" She slid her hands up the front of his shirt and felt him tremble. It was humbling; this strong, decent, beautiful man was trembling. For her. "Hmmmm?" And with that, she placed her soft lips on his.

For a moment, she thought he was not going to respond. His lips formed to hers and he kissed her back, more than kissed her back, it was _ignition_. He broke the kiss, his eyes darkened with confusion, smoldering – if she only knew what this was costing him, he couldn't maintain control much longer. "Trixie,"

She responded by pressing her body full length against his, and whispered into his mouth, "Oh, Mr. Frayne, you are _definitely_ not going to get away that easily," and crushed his lips to hers. Her pink tongue slipped across his lower lip, and his iron control shattered.

Trixie Belden was aware exactly when Mr. Honorable died a quick and painless death. His mouth ravished hers, his big, strong hands stoking, stroking. Her desire mounted as he matched her kiss for kiss, as he dipped his head to lick and nip at her neck, shoulders, to drag his tongue across her exposed skin; she had to feel his skin against hers, she needed, she wanted, she surrendered as much to him as he to her.

Jim was lost. Every dream that he had, every experience he ever had, it all vanished into mist compared to the reality of loving Trixie. They moved to her bedroom as one.

And so, Dear Reader, we will quietly remove our attention from what is a very private moment between lovers. Imagine, if you will, the release of a pent-up desire and a declaration six years in the making – and even then, could you imagination really match what transpired between them? Instead we'll journey ahead a few days to the future, to the hallowed halls of NYU as Di cornered Trixie before class.

"Have something to spill Trix?"

Trixie looked up from her intense study of the patterns etched in the linoleum by countless feet, and Di was struck by the incandescent beauty Trix radiated. It was as if she was lit by a soft glow from within.

Trixie gave Di a smug smile.

"Everything went… well."

"I want details! Salacious details! He's not _my_ brother! And yeah, Trix, I saw Jim dropping you off this morning and that, let's see, five minute little good-bye kiss was absolutely no friendly see ya later fellow Bob-White peck on the cheek!"

"Um, while I don't think Jim would appreciate my revealing details, I will venture to say that the honorability line was well and truly crossed many times this weekend. In fact, I think the line was obliterated. And Di – I never even had the chance to show him my days of the week from Wal-Mart."

Trixie would still never understand why Di insisted upon making that ungodly sound to signify happiness when all it did was nearly puncture eardrums.

Happiness was the low moans and hot, wet kisses of a shared destiny, although she did think her A in math might be right up there on Jim's list.


	4. Obsession

Disclaimer: I don't own Trixie Belden

Obsession

Sometimes I awaken with the thought that something very heavy is pressing down on me. I imagine it must be like the G-forces hot-dog fighter pilots' experience; glued to their seat, unable to move for that fraction of a second.

Then I remember I am thirteen stories underground instead of flying free, and the heaviness oppressing me are the floors above me. All those tons of concrete and stone and glass and furniture and people scurrying through, all of it presses me down.

They say I'm here until I die, that I will never escape and see the sunlight again. I will never touch the flesh of another living being, never bear a child, never smell the new mown grass. All I have is this cell, thirteen stories down. That's what they say.

All I have is the harsh fluorescent light. Every inch of my home is brightly illuminated, both day and night. My bed is a slab of concrete, built directly into the wall, with a thin foam mattress on top. My table and chair are also of concrete, although another sliver of foam on the chair is their concession to comfort. I don't have the luxury of a private bathroom; my toilet is one piece stainless steel, as is the small sink. I cannot regulate the temperature of the water, or flush the toilet; a small electric eye turns the water on and off when I pass my hands, or rise from the seat. I have a few sheets of toilet paper, the cheap kind that shreds when it's wet. I suppose they are afraid I will stop up the toilet or the sink if they give me more. Drinking water comes from a small fountain also with an electric eye. It's never cold, always just this side of lukewarm.

I do have a few books, actually pages of books, doled out in small parcels, all reprinted on thin tissue paper. There is a screen in the room, built into the wall and covered with thick Plexiglas. Occasionally a program will suddenly blat out, usually a news show or sometimes a bad true-crime drama, with the criminal always getting caught and the violence carefully excised. Sometimes a program about me, and how that damn curly-haired blonde girl put everything together and I ended up here.

My meals are passed through a slot in the wall, much like Hannibal Lecter's meals in _Silence of the Lambs_. In fact, I think my cell was partially patterned after his – except the thick Plexiglas facing the hallway is only three-quarters down and set into concrete. There are no small airholes spaced evenly at the top and bottom. My air is carefully kept at 72 degrees and pumped in and out through a complicated duct system. Unlike Lecter, I am not allowed utensils – every meal is designed to be eaten with my hands only.

I haven't voluntarily touched another human since I was incarcerated here, seven years ago.

That's not to say I haven't seen anyone other than my jailers. I've had a dribble of visitors, mostly behavioral people, trying to pick apart my brain. They want to pry into my life and see if I fit their carefully constructed profile. Did I wet the bed? Set fires? Torture animals? Am I remorseful? And then there are the authors who want to use me as a springboard to fame and fortune. Do you know how many books they wrote about Ted Bundy after his death? If he saw every author purporting to interview him, he would be one very busy prisoner, indeed.

I have gaps in my memory. Lying here on my bed, I can only surmise that they pump in some sort of sleeping gas at times. I suppose they check out my physical condition then – wash me up weekly - I know I lost a couple of months and woke up to find my uterus removed. At least I think it was removed – I have a large scar (no pretty little transverse incisions for me) and no longer get my period. I think they didn't want to deal with sanitary disposal. And maybe they're just that tiny bit afraid I would have the audacity to reproduce asexually.

They think I will never get out of here, but I shall. I know I shall, and then I will go back to doing what I do best. What I dream about. I'll again smell that coppery smell, and feel that warmth spurting over my fingers.

They think they know how good I am at my job. I've seen snippets of the news – the killer of 50 men, women and children, obviously insane, put away for life. They always let me see the part where learned men and women discuss me in unflattering terms. They always let me see the part where it is said I'm safely secured for life. _They don't know me at all._

I have freshets of blood flowing in my mind, little trickles and great gusting geysers. You must know where to cut, you see, to create the artistic effect you want. 50 victims – no, not 50. Who will miss the homeless, the runaways, and the unprotected? I watched red soak into the ground countless times. _150_ - just practice in my world.

They say I will always remain here. But I'm young yet, and one day I will fade from the public consciousness. One day a doctor, forgetful, will pass me something innocuous – a questionnaire with a metal insert. Or some learned man will allow me to have utensils. Or maybe they'll decide this is too expensive, and I will be put in a maximum security jail instead of a fortress.

And then they'll know – oh, and _she'll_ know, that curly-haired blonde, Trixie Belden Frayne - that nothing in this life is secure. And I shall resume my obsession.

My dreams are always dressed in scarlet.

A/N: Many thanks to my terrific editor, Mylee, who I hope doesn't get nightmares form the darker side!


	5. Home Alone

"…and when it rained or was cold outside, we used to build forts in the house," Trixie was telling Honey. "I have to say Moms was pretty patient with us. We'd have the dining room full of old sheets and blankets and she'd let us camp out in there overnight."

Honey's pretty topaz eyes were wistful. "They never let us build forts in boarding school," she confessed. "Everything was scheduled down to the last second. Besides, the girls were all so catty, I don't even think any of them knew what a fort was." She didn't have to add that her health wouldn't have let her participate, anyway.

She stopped being the poor little rich girl the moment she had met Trixie when they were 13 years old. But occasionally her past rose up to swamp her and make her long for things outside of her limited and sheltered upbringing. Like playing forts.

Trixie looked at her best friend's face, full of yearning, and made up her mind. "Your parents are away on business, right Honey?" It was one thing that Trixie never could understand. They were _always_ away on business.

"Yes," she said snapping herself back to the present and looking into the excited blue eyes of her friend. "They're in Japan for a week or so."

"And Ms. Trask is visiting with her sister in the city," Trixie continued, her sharp mind formulating a plan. "Jim's not due back from school for another day or two, so let's do it!"

"Let's do what?" Honey had to ask. One thing for sure, since Trixie became her friend, life was never dull.

"Let's build a fort in the storage room! I'm sure there're all kinds of old linens lying around. Let's do it and we can spend the night underneath the table, camping out and listening to sounds of the prairie or something on your iPod." At Honey's dubious look, Trixie pressed on. "C'mon! It'll be fun. We're not adults and going to college yet, Ms. Wheeler."

Trixie's enthusiasm was contagious, as Honey's patrician face pinked with excitement. "You know, you're right, Trix. Let's build a fort!"

Of course, Trixie mused later, the Manor House wouldn't have old threadbare sheets or quilts with holes in them. Nope, they had elegant old throws that were probably worth a fortune, Frette sheets in intricate patterns with a 6000 thread count and old Oriental rugs that likely belonged in a museum somewhere. Standing on the old dining room table, Trixie affixed some linens to the chandelier, praying she wasn't doing any damage. Honey was in charge of arranging the chairs around the table and draping the sheets over the back of them to afford some kind of protection.

The look on her friend's face, the absolute bliss, was enough for Trixie to realize that she did the right thing. When they finished they stepped back and looked at the haphazard, kaleidoscopic teepee they had created in the middle of an unused storage room in the mansion on the hill.

"It looks great, Trix, just great." If there was a catch in her voice, Honey hoped that Trixie wouldn't notice. Damn. She'd made a fort!

Trixie did hear the small hiccup in Honey's voice, but chose to ignore it. Instead she put her arm around Honey's shoulders and squeezed. "It's the best! A masterpiece if I say so myself," and if Trixie's voice sounded somewhat thick, it was the exertion of getting those corners up on the chandelier.

They both began to giggle uncontrollably. They were heading off to college in September, just a few weeks away, and they were building forts in the storage room. Maybe their second childhood was kicking in before their first drifted away.

Late that night, Trixie listened to the even sounds of Honey's breathing while they slept under the dining room table. They had gorged on junk food, bottles of strawberry pop, and talked about their hopes, dreams and wishes for the future. Honey's voice got slower, but before she fell asleep she gathered Trixie close to her, running her slender hand through Trixie's curls. "Thank you," she whispered, "Thanks for building a fort with me and making memories."

Trixie's eyes pricked with tears as she squeezed her back. "It's been fun, hasn't it?" She made a vow then and there that she would find out all the things that Honey _didn't _get to do and she would make them happen.

But now she had to visit the bathroom and grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator to wash away the sticky taste of strawberry pop. She quietly crept out of the fort and took care of business before opening the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of cold water.

The lights to the kitchen suddenly flicked on and there was Jim, giving her his crooked grin. "Making late-night visits to my refrigerator, shamus?" he teased. She was an unexpected and glorious sight to come home to. His special girl, her curls tousled in just the way he liked and clad in some very short and revealing pajamas.

"Jim!" She squeaked out. "I thought you weren't due home for another few days!" She leaped into his arms, water forgotten.

"Couldn't wait to see my special girl," he replied, and then no words were necessary.

He offered to walk her back upstairs to Honey's room. "Nope. We're sleeping in the small storage room," she explained. "We made a fort."

Reaching the doorway of the room, he knew exactly what she had done and why. He reached up to tug his curl. "You are extraordinary, Trixie Belden," he whispered. His lips sought out hers giving her a hard, possessive kiss. "Is it any wonder that I am so madly in love with you I can't think straight?"

He left her standing there, her fingers on her lips, and wondering if she really heard him say the words, or if she was asleep with Honey having the best dream _ever_.

A/N: Lots of hugs and kisses to my editors, Jo, Jenny, Mylee and Cindy. Nice posse to have your back!

According to Word, this story clocks in at exactly 1000 words. Written for photograph # 7 for CWE #3.


	6. Watchin' the Tide Roll Away

The blonde-haired man was passing by his bedroom window; he didn't bother to look because the view was one he grew up with. Others paid thousands to see what he saw every day of his life. Outside the sun was sparkling on the calm ocean and the white sand beach extended for miles.

Some movement caught his eye and he peered out. The woman was lounging in a hammock, staring out to sea. Her long blonde hair was almost touching the sand and one arm reached down and he could see her finger busily working there.

He lifted a strong arm up above his head and leaned heavily against the wooden frame of the window, gazing between the concealing slats of the wooden shutters. Although he could only see the woman's face in profile, he knew she was beautiful. Her slender limbs were tinted a light golden tan; she appeared totally relaxed. She stared down at what she had either written or drawn in the sand, and he could imagine her smiling or laughing as she brushed her fingers over it, erasing it, and began again.

_It had been a long time_. A long time since anyone had taken up tenancy in the house next door. People had busy lives to live, he supposed; he knew he did. He closed his eyes for a moment wished for the carefree days of youth. The parties on the beach; staying up till all hours of the morning and still being full of energy and excitement at what the new day would bring. Those were the days when the house next door was occupied during the summer and he couldn't wait for the next week or two to see who would be in residence.

Especially the pretty blonde lounging in the hammock.

He was always delighted to see her. If he was honest, he thought wryly, he'd admit it was more than delight. Much more. He especially enjoyed when the girls came by themselves, and they didn't have all those protective males hovering around them.

_Especially_ her.

He should've known better. He really should have. Wasn't it obvious from the first time he'd met her? Her sunny smile and her exuberance for life drew him in. But even back then he should've known that she was taken. It was so obvious to him now that he had more of the experience of life behind him.

Back then, he couldn't see farther than his own wants and desires. And he wanted her; desired her; even coveted her. Over the years, the stinging pain of her rejection – and the stinging pain of her sudden slap to his face – had lessened. He couldn't help acknowledging some responsibility for the long vacancy of the house next door.

He thought back to that day. Several of his friends and the girls from next door had a bonfire on the beach. The night sky was crystal clear; the Milky Way was a sparkling ribbon. A cooling breeze was drifting in from the ocean, bringing with it that special scent of sand and surf.

He saw her looking up at the night sky, a wistful expression in those China blue eyes. She stood alone, a tiny pair of shorts emphasizing her long, pretty legs; feet were encased in flip-flops. She had a tank top on in her favorite blue and an oversize sweater tied around her neck.

He never stopped to think whose oversize sweater that was.

He suggested a walk, just the two of them. Her sunny smile lit up his night as she agreed, falling into step with him as they talked about this and that; every so often, she would bend and pick up a seashell, exclaiming over its absolute perfection.

He loved that about her. Everything that was so mundane in his life, seen through her eyes suddenly became exciting and new again. He glanced back at their footprints in the wet sand and thought how nicely they matched; his large prints and hers daintier; and he had a vision of looking back 40 years from now and seeing that same matched pair.

She was chattering about something, he never remembered what. All he knew was the moonlight in her hair making a golden halo around her head, the soft summer breeze and his own desire combined into a lethal combination. One that could not be resisted.

So he grabbed at her arm, turning her to face him, and remembered seeing inquisitive look in her expressive eyes before he licked his lips and pressed them to hers. He remembered how her body went absolutely still for a moment as his tongue pressed against the seam of her lips, pushing for entrance so that he could finally taste that lush, warm mouth.

Instead, her small strong hands pushed at him; pushed him away. For a moment they were frozen in time; her big blue eyes reproachful. But he didn't listen. He was too far gone and reached for her again, thinking perhaps he could charm her into his embrace.

And that's when she hauled off and whacked him one. He raised a large hand to his smarting cheek; watched as she rubbed away any evidence of him from her mouth with her hand. She didn't argue; she didn't yell; she just left. The rest of the visit she took pains so that they were never alone again.

She suddenly sat up straighter in the hammock, her attention fastened on the sea. He didn't have to look, but he did. The tall, strong, red-haired man was walking in from the ocean, as always, his emerald green eyes riveted on her.

Jim Frayne approached the hammock and held out a large hand into which she put her small, dainty one. As she stood, he noticed that she was heavily pregnant. He watched as Jim ran his hand over her abdomen and bent down to kiss her.

Nope. Someone like Peter Kimball never had a chance with Trixie Belden Frayne.


	7. The Bracelet

_Fasten your seatbelts the light in front flashed. Trixie and Jim obeyed. Then, as the big ship sped down the runway to take off, Jim pulled a little package from his pocket. "It's for you, Trixie," he said. "I got it Valley Park yesterday."_

_Trixie opened the box. She stared at the dainty silver identification bracelet that nestled there. "It has your name on it, Jim," she said and smiled shyly at him. "Put it on for me, will you?"_

_"You know what it means, don't you?" Jim asked._

_"Tell me," Trixie answered._

_"It means you're my special girl, Trixie," Jim said. "As if you didn't know that already."_

_"I do," Trixie murmured. "Oh, Jim!"_

_The plane lifted. The landscape below grew smaller. Blue sky and clouds surrounded them._

_Trixie looked happily at her bracelet, then reached over and put her small, sturdy hand into Jim's. He closed his long fingers tightly over it…_

and took a quick peek over at Mart and Diana. Seeing them otherwise occupied, he leaned over quickly and brushed his lips across Trixie's. Not for the first time, he wished they could be alone for just a _little_ while.

Trixie raised wondering fingers to her lips and closed her eyes, still feeling his mouth on hers, and committed the moment to memory. If nothing else wonderful ever happened in her life, she'd always have this to look back on.

When the plane disgorged its passengers into the busy terminal at JFK airport in New York City, Jim deliberately held on tightly to Trixie's hand, preventing her from jumping up with her usual energy and attempt to beat the crowd out of the plane. They were just about the last ones in the aisle when he lowered his head to hers and gave her the first real kiss either of them had ever experienced.

By the time they exited the plane and joined the rest of the Bob-Whites, both of them were quite flushed and very warm. And insanely happy.

And if Honey gave them a sharp look as her fine topaz eyes dropped to the shiny bracelet that wasn't on her best friend's wrist at the start of the flight, she wisely kept it to herself. _At least for now._ She watched in amusement as her brother, as usual, thought he was being so suave and unobtrusive, and maneuvered himself next to Trixie for the ride home.

And when Tom dropped the Beldens off in the driveway at Crabapple Farm, she pretended not to notice the way her brother's green eyes locked onto Trixie's pretty, brilliant blue ones. Yup. Tomorrow was going to be another day and she was going to get the truth out of Ms. Belden.

Although neither of her brothers noticed the delicate, sparkling silver bracelet on their sister's wrist, her parents' more discerning eyes zeroed in on it almost immediately. Helen Belden saw the way her husband's eyes darkened, and trod none-too-gently on his foot before he could insert it in his mouth. At the almost imperceptible shake of his wife's head, he bit down on the sarcastic questions that were begging to be let loose.

The rest of the evening was spent hearing about lambs, floods and great new friends. Finally, exhausted, the older children followed their younger sibling to bed. Waiting a few beats for the closing of the various bedroom doors, Helen turned to her impatient husband.

"I'm going up to talk to her in a few minutes." She held up a hand when he began to speak. "I saw what it said, Peter."

"_Jim_. It said _Jim_, Helen." Peter ran a restless hand through his thick, dark hair. "She's only 13!" He wasn't ready for this. What else happened between the two of them on this ill-advised trip to his brother's farm in Happy Valley? He had a good mind to march up the hill and confront that…_that red-headed Casanova._

"I _know_, dear. Last time I checked, I was capable of reading, Mr. Belden," Helen said dryly. "I'm going up to talk to her now. We'll decide what to do after I get the whole story." She rose and walked over to his chair, giving him a hug. Men! They were so clueless at times. She saw exactly where all this was heading as soon as she found out her inquisitive, energetic tomboy had found the 'most wonderful boy in the world.'

As she trudged up the stairs, she had to snort to herself. There was that, and the way Jim's eyes followed Trixie's every move when he thought she wasn't looking and the way Trixie's did exactly the same. She paused outside her daughter's door, wiping her damp hands on her thighs and just hoping she had the right words, and knocked. "Trixie? It's Moms."

"Come on in, Moms!"

_Oh boy_. Helen knew that tone in her daughter's voice. Excitement, happiness, and a little bit of trepidation she was going to get lectured for taking chances, not only with her life, but Honey's and Jim's, too.

Pasting a smile on her face, Helen entered the slightly messy room (_you could always tell when Trixie was in residence,_ Helen thought wryly) and closed the door behind her. Trixie was sitting on the window seat, the one that faced Manor House, in her pretty lemon yellow summer pajamas, running her fingers over the engraved name on the dainty bracelet.

"Moms, pleeeease don't lecture me," Trixie begged, widening those big blue eyes. "Anything you can say to me I've already said to myself a million times. She pulled her knees up and rested her chin on them, clasping her arms around them. "Pretty please?" she wheedled. The bracelet slid down her arm.

Helen sat on the side of Trixie's bed, running a slender hand over the light quilt her grandmother had made. She lifted the same hand and ran it along the engraved surface of the bracelet, much as her daughter has just done, and said a quick prayer. "I think you learned your lesson with that, Trixie. It's this _new _accessory I want to speak to you about."

The hated rose blush overspread her face, and she hid it from view by simply placing her hand over it. "Jim gave it to me," she explained in a soft voice, so very unlike her usual boisterous self.

"I think that is pretty evident since J-I-M is engraved on it, Trixie. What does this mean? When did he give it to you?" _Get all the facts, first, Helen,_ she told her impatient self, the one who just wanted to jump in with an interrogation that would have made the FBI Domestic Terrorist Force proud.

"On the plane, Moms." She ducked her head, not wanting to meet her mother's matching, inquisitive blue eyes. This was too new, between Jim and her. She wanted to examine every facet of it, as well as the stolen kisses that had made her feel so…_deliciously tingly_.

_Well, that was a relief. _"Trixie, when I was a young girl, a boy giving a girl an identification bracelet meant they were going steady. Dating exclusively." Helen watched her daughter's innocent blue eyes as they widened a bit.

"Moms, we…we aren't _dating_." At least not yet, she amended in her mind. "He…he just told me I was _special_ to him."

_Oh, Trixie, you have no idea how special you are to Jim Frayne. I'm not sure he realizes it, either_. "He's a nice boy, honey. Just…just don't get too involved in anything right now. You're both very young."

"No, Moms. You don't have to worry. Jim _is_ very honorable, you know," she informed her mother, thrilled that she wasn't going to make her give back the gift to Jim.

Helen rose and kissed her daughter's curly head. _Oh my, honey, tell me that in a year or two when hormones are riding the both of you hard._ "Okay, baby, get some sleep – and be prepared to be teased unmercifully."

Trixie groaned. "Don't remind me, Moms. Mart and Brian were too tired to notice, but I know Honey and Di are going to give me the third degree tomorrow," she frowned.

Helen chucked her under the chin and giggled at the sour expression on Trixie's face. "Gotta take your lumps, Trix. You might want to wear long sleeves!"

"Yeah, right," she said miserably.

Helen opened the door and gave her a parting shot. "And Daddy will probably have a few choice things to say to you in the near future."

Trixie flopped back against the wall, covering her head with her hands. "Oh, God, no!" she moaned. Not _Daddy_. Talk about embarrassing!

Helen joined Peter in the family room, where he was pretending to watch a baseball game on ESPN. One glance at the screen belied his avid interest. It was the Red Sox playing the Mariners. For someone who bled Yankee pinstripes and once named their cow _Bronx_, watching a Red Sox game when they weren't playing the Yankees was tantamount to treason.

She sat primly on the couch, and appeared to become engrossed in the latest copy of _OMG!_ Magazine, a new gossip magazine that had recently hit the market. Meanwhile, she was counting down the minutes in her head.

Peter couldn't take it any longer and the questions just exploded out of him. "Well, what happened? What did she say? Are you making her give it back?" If Trixie was reluctant to face that…that…_Jim_, he'd be more than happy to make the trip up the hill and place the offending object his is hot, freckled paw.

"Three minutes, Peter," she smirked. "Not quite a new record." She put the magazine down, vowing not to purchase it again. What a rag! Paul Trent should be writing for them!

She gave a small sigh and smiled. "It's perfectly innocent, Peter. More a statement of friendship and appreciation than a mark of exclusivity. They aren't even dating yet."

"I still don't like it, Helen. It's not that I don't like Jim. I do. And if in the future, when Trixie is 35, she wants to date him, I'll have no objection at all," he muttered.

Helen's fine eyebrows arched, and a slow grin crossed her lips. "Oh, Papa Bear. How protective you are of your cub. I think that there is bit of overreaction going on here."

"I see the way he looks at her, Helen, and the way she looks back. I was teenage boy once, you know," he informed her, in case she had forgotten.

"So I suppose you've noticed the way that Brian looks at Honey or the way that Mart looks at Diana," she parried.

"But they are guys! And Honey and Diana are not my daughters." As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized he made a tactical mistake. _Damn!_

"Peter! No double standards allowed anymore." She stood and crossed over to his chair, sitting in his lap and brushing her fingers through his hair. "Like Trixie reminded me, Jim is _very_ honorable." When he began to interrupt she shushed him by simply putting a slender finger against his lips.

"They're both very young, Peter. Trixie informs me they aren't dating and I reminded her of the incessant teasing that is about to invade her life. Sometimes you have to lose the battle to win the war. This is one of those times. That's not to say that we shouldn't keep an eye on the situation and intervene if things heat up between them."

"I still think I should have a few words with young Jim Frayne," he insisted.

"And _I_ think a few words should be left to Matt and Maddie Wheeler." _Of course_ she was going to apprise his parents of the current situation.

Peter rolled his eyes. "All right. I'll let it go."

Helen gave him a quick kiss on the lips. "I did give you the honor of speaking to Trixie about it. I told her that her daddy would have a few words to say on the subject of boy girl relationships from the male perspective," she smirked, and had the satisfaction of watching her handsome husband blush.

"Oh God, Helen! I can't talk to her about that!" There was no way, absolutely _no way_ he could ever bring up the subject of sex with his daughter.

Helen tapped him on the head. "If you've got some dirty thoughts up there, you might as well let Trixie know that's all that teenage boys think about."

Peter gave a heavy sigh, and knew that he was done. He rested his forehead against his wife's shoulder. "You win."

She climbed out of his lap and gave him a saucy wink. "Don't I always?"


	8. What Dreams May Come

His dreams were usually full of dinosaurs and racing cars and horses and cartoon characters. When a boy was only five years old, those were the dreams that he had. Snips and snails and puppy dog tails.

When he was five years old, one night he had a _different_ dream. It was so vivid he felt the sun on his face and the sweet spring breeze, full of white flower petals that looked like snow. There was another child, a little girl, tiny and delicate looking, with a head full of white-blonde curls. She was wearing a dirty dress and running after a butterfly. She turned to him, a big smile on her face and eyes that were as blue as those flowers his mama loved. She stuck out a dimpled baby hand and said, in her high-pitched sweet baby voice, "_Pay, Ji-iny. Pay_." He reached for her hand, wanting nothing more than to play, and grabbed just air.

When he was eight, his dreams were _almost_ the same as when he was five. But he was hunting dinosaurs with his dad too, or dreaming of riding Blackjack. He was getting to be a big boy now, his dad said. Time to learn to be a _man_.

When he was eight, he dreamed of that curly-haired blonde girl again. Her hair was not as white-blonde as it was when she was a baby; it was more golden now. But her eyes were still as beautiful and blue as mama's delphiniums, and a sprinkling of freckles graced her pert little nose. She wasn't wearing a dirty little sundress; she was in grass-stained jeans and a matching rumpled t-shirt. She stretched out a hand to him, laughing. "Come _on_, Jimmy. I'm _still _waiting for you." And once again, he wanted to grasp that grubby hand in the worst way, but all his own hand captured was thin air.

When he was ten, everything was as black as midnight. His dreams were full of terrible images; he railed at the injustice of life - and death. She came to him in the blackness that was consuming his soul, her golden hair cutting through the dark like a beacon to his battered heart. She laid her head against his chest, her sturdy arms going around his waist, and let her warmth creep into his icy body. She whispered to him, "I'm still waiting, Jimmy." When he went to put his arms around her, they passed through the air like nothing was ever there.

When he was thirteen, and his life upended yet again, she was there once more, tears sparkling in the depths of those amazing blue eyes. And when she held him, let him sob against her; let the heat of his tears drip on her coolness of her skin, it was almost like coming home. "Come and find me, Jimmy," she sobbed hoarsely, feeling his despair. He went to rub the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, but all he touched was the cool, blank air.

When he was fourteen, and lay there for three days, tied to the bed, beaten but not broken, drifting in and out of consciousness, his nights and his days were filled with the pretty blonde girl who exhorted him to stay strong, and to come to her, to _leave_ that evil place. She bent her head to his, her lips just a whisper away, but all he kissed was the fetid air in the room that had become his prison.

When he was fifteen, and sleeping in lean-tos he made himself; dusty and dirty and so hungry and tired and scared; while he was trying to make his way to a place called Ten Acres and possible salvation, his nights were filled with visions of his angel. She always tossed him a saucy wink and told him he had to hurry and come find her. She'd been waiting for _so_ long. He reached out to pull her to him, but she always danced away, and all he grabbed was the gentle breeze.

And then he was fifteen, sleeping on a lumpy mattress in a decaying old mansion without a hope in the world. He was startled awake and opened his eyes to stare into the stunned blue eyes of his blonde-haired fantasy.

And this time_, this_ time when his long, slender fingers reached out to touch hers, she didn't vanish and he wasn't left grasping at air. Sliding his skin on hers, he said, "_Shake. My name's Jim. What's yours?"_

And sealed his destiny.


	9. Lake Effect

If there was one job Helen Belden hated, it was cleaning the attic. It wasn't the cleaning part that bothered her; she was used to having dirt underneath her fingernails – her award-winning garden was testament to that.

No, it wasn't getting rid of the cobwebs and dust that bothered her. It was trying to decide which treasures to keep and which to discard. For a woman firmly in charge of her home, four children of varying temperaments, and her husband, although he would never admit that, she hated to dither about what items should be kept and what should be thrown away.

As the sun slanted through the window and the dust motes danced in the air, Helen stood in the middle of the attic, her hair covered with a bandanna; in her oldest capris and one of her husband's T-shirts that were a giveaway from the Sleepyside Savings and Loan Institution, Inc.

She glanced at her wavy reflection in an old mirror somebody had stored. _Not quite the prim and proper lady who was president of the Garden Club_, she snorted silently to herself. _Did we really need this mirror up here?_

Helen sighed as she looked at the jumble of boxes. She should know better than to ask the boys to bring things up to the attic. Everything always ended up in drunken piles that took her more time to straighten out than if she just brought them upstairs herself.

She picked up the first box. Seriously, she really needed to weed things out up here; space was getting tight. When she pivoted, her hip caught on something and not only did she drop the box in her hands, but she lost her balance, plopping down on the floor on her butt and knocking over a small wooden chest that spilled its contents all over the floor.

And her.

She sat there for a minute on the dusty floor, rubbing the side of her hip. _Great. The next thing you know the kids are going to be getting me one of those alarms to wear around my neck because I've fallen and I can't get up,_ she giggled to herself.

She lifted the wooden box that had fallen and was jolted when she read the inscription burned into the top. Helen Johnson, it said, and her dad had painted it gold so that it looked fancy, like something you could buy in one of those elegant New York stores. Helen Johnson. She traced her name with her index finger; it seemed so long ago she was Helen Johnson; Belden was a much more familiar combination with Helen.

She picked up the mementos that had fallen out of her keepsake box. Awards for art contests at school; an apology note from her sister Alicia; one of those Famous Artists tests she had taken from the back of a comic book and some photographs.

It was the last one that caught her eye. She remembered that so well. One of the sororities at college had a 50s night, so she and Peter dressed accordingly and went to have fun. But her idea of fun was not the same as Sorority Row. The 60s were a time of excess; pot was everywhere, Timothy Leary advised everyone to _Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out_; women were reveling in their newfound sexual freedom and the men were reveling in _them_.

Not really her style, nor Peter's either. When they got the first whiff of the sweet odor of marijuana, a mutual decision was reached to leave.

"Let's go ice skating by my parents' house," he whispered to her. "I'll get Andrew and Sarah and they can come, too."

"But Peter, I don't have my ice skates with me," she said, holding out one saddle-shoe clad foot.

"You can use my mother's. You're about the same size," he cajoled. "It'll be fun. More fun than here."

She stared into his coal black eyes, the sides of them crinkling with the force of his smile and her heart gave a tiny lurch; just enough to fall off that cliff and tumble down into love.

They found his brother Andrew and Sarah; made a quick stop at the charming farmhouse the brothers referred to as Crabapple Farm, and ended up at the big lake on the property belonging to the vacant mansion known as the Manor House.

Andrew borrowed his father's old black and white camera. The men dragged one of the benches that surrounded the dock into the middle of the lake. Helen remembered laughing as Peter knelt on the ice in front of her, removing her shoes and putting her skates on, as Andrew teased him and asked him where the ring was.

She stopped laughing when a blaze lit Peter's eyes and he replied seriously, "When I ask Helen to marry me, there's not going to be an audience and it's not going to be in the middle of a frozen lake."

For a long moment they just stared into each other's eyes, china blue to coal black. "And when you do get around to asking me, Peter Belden," she whispered, "The answer is definitely going to be yes."

Helen ran her fingers across that picture, now faded, a silly smile on her face. They had taken their relationship to the next level that night, and she never regretted it and never looked back.

When the door to the attic banged open, she didn't see the father of her four children with little touches silver at his temples. She saw the young man who knelt on the ice for her.

"Helen, what you doing up here?" There was his pretty wife, dusty and dirty and sitting in the middle of God knows what. He extended his hand and she placed her slender one in it; he helped her up and right into his arms.

As she lifted her lips to his, he only hoped _whatever_ she was doing, she would continue doing it.


	10. The Great Underwear Incident

**Trixie's Journal **

Nothing at all would have happened if Moms hadn't started making us do our own laundry. I know, I know, she gave us all lessons but I guess the only one paying attention was Brian. Mr. Perfect never turned his white shirts pink like I did or did what _Mart_ did.

You have to admit that was funny, even if Mart did not think so. He did a load of wash and hung it outside to dry, and then we all met at the Wheelers' lake for an early-season picnic. When he got home, his tidy whities were hanging in shreds!

Mart went storming into the house, figuring Bobby had something to do with this catastrophe; after all Bobby and a pair of scissors was a recipe for disaster. Remember the time he decided to give himself a Mohawk? Moms hid all the scissors after that, even the dull ones. Lucky that happened during the summer and not during school.

Anyway, Mart came in with the remnants of what used to be his Fruit of the Looms. I swear that his face was redder than mine, even that time Jim accidentally kissed me in front of everybody. Well, how was I supposed to know he was going to turn his face at the same time I was giving him a little thank you kiss on the cheek? The way everybody acted, you would think we were having a full make-out session in front of the entire high school.

"BOBBY! Robert Belden! Get down here _right_ this instant!" Mart was yelling up the stairs, and it's a good thing Daddy wasn't home. You know how he feels about yelling up the steps. Mart had a bunch of what looked like white rags in his hand.

Moms and I came rushing out of the kitchen and saw what he was holding in his hands. "Martin Belden." Moms said it in that momly voice that usually resulted in whatever was going on immediately stopping and the guilty party well, looking even guiltier. But Mart was too far gone at this point.

"_Look_ at this, Moms! Look what that little bas...Bobby did! I don't know what's _wrong_ with him. He must've found your stash of scissors. You know," Mart said darkly, "This can be a sign of an incipient serial killer."

Moms took one look at the mess of white rags in his hand, shrugged her shoulders and asked him, quite calmly, "Where did you get those white rags, Mart?" I guess she couldn't understand why Mart was so upset that Bobby cut up a bunch of white rags.

"They _used _to be my underwear. _All _of my underwear. And now they're reduced to this." He held a pair up, and all that remained was of a few shreds of material attached to an elastic waistband and some anemic looking fruit. "Where _is_ the little monster, Moms?"

Moms was looking at stuff Mart held in his hand with the funniest look on her face. It was almost like she was a combination of horrified and hysterical. She finally said in a strangled voice, "Your brother hasn't been home all day. He left even before you got out of the house, Martin. Diana's parents took him and the twins into White Plains for the day."

"Then how did _every_ single pair of my underwear get like this?" Mart waved the shreds like a sort of tattered surrender flag, and neither Moms nor I could contain our laughter any longer. I even think I peed a little; tears were rolling down our faces and Mart was getting angrier and angrier. Finally, Moms took a deep breath.

"Just what did you do to these, um, underwear, honey?" Moms asked him.

Mart sat on the steps hard, looking miserable. "_Nothing_ , Moms. I noticed they were getting kind of gray looking, so I remembered you told us to use some bleach. So I presoaked them in bleach before washing them."

Moms' voice sounded strangled again. "You presoaked your underwear in bleach. Straight bleach, you didn't dilute it? For how long?"

"A couple hours. Then I ran them through the wash and hung them out on the line. When I came home they were like this." Mart held up the tatters in both hands. And of course Moms started laughing hysterically again and I began laughing and she finally got a chance about thirty minutes later to explain that you shouldn't presoak your underwear in _undiluted _bleach.

Then she had to run Mart to Crimper's for all new underwear. And of course I had to needle him for the next couple of weeks. It isn't often that Mart does something really stupid like that, even if he is a lamebrain.

I guess he decided to get revenge on me for laughing so hysterically – and maybe for telling all the other Bob-Whites too – because you know his motto is revenge is sweet. _Saccharine_ sweet.

Well you know me, I have to use every single bit of clothing that I own before I go downstairs to wash it. Mart must've been observing me for quite some time and learned my habits. All I had left in my underwear drawer was an old pair of boy-cut panties with Wednesday printed across the back. I put them on even though it wasn't Wednesday, because honestly who was gonna see them? I also had to wear a short skirt and sweater set because all my jeans needed to be laundered.

_Wrong_ move.

I was sitting in the cafeteria with Jim. Honey and Diana had gone on a field trip with one of their classes; Brian was in guidance doing some stuff about college and God only knows where Mart and Dan got to.

I stood up to return my tray to the kitchen when I felt a little snap.

And then my panties slithered down my legs.

_Right_ down to the ankles.

And I sat right back down.

I must have turned vermilion, because Jim stared at me and asked what was wrong. Oh great. Just what I want to tell the boy that I've been in love with since forever. _Well, you see Jim, I know it's Friday but I have on panties that say Wednesday but really, I've changed them and they just broke. And right now I'm sitting here bare-assed in the cafeteria with my panties around my ankles._

Even worse than that, I had stuck my book bag in my locker before lunch, so I couldn't just bend down and stuff them in there. Damn that Mart. He probably sanded the elastic so that would give way at some point.

"Trix? What's wrong? You're practically purple."

I tried to tell him, really, but I started to choke and then he really got scared and started pounding me on the back. _Hard. _

"Jim!" I hissed. "I'm not choking." I motioned for him to lean down I could whisper. "This is really embarrassing." I just _couldn't_ say it right then.

He tugged at my curl, the one that he considers his. "What's really embarrassing, Trix?" Gosh when he looks at me with those green eyes and makes me feel like I'm the only person in the world I just feel like melting.

I started chewing on my lower lip. "Jim. Ummm… When I stood up the elastic on my panties broke. My panties are now taking up residence around my ankles. I don't know what to do."

I guess of all the things that I could've told Jim, telling him that I was sitting next to him bare-assed was probably the last thing he expected. He turned as red as I was, his eyes widened into great green seas, and he let out a short bark of laughter. "Are you _sure_?" he whispered back.

I know I rolled my eyes. "Of course I'm _sure_. The problem is I can't just pick them up and put them in my backpack, because I don't have it with me. And I don't want anybody to see what I'm doing."

Jim had the _strangest_ look in his eyes. "Listen Trix, I have gym next, so I have my duffel bag with me. Just bend down and get them off as nonchalantly as you can and stuff them in my bag. You can get them later."

I made a big production of dropping my fork. When I bent under the big cafeteria table I picked up my fork in one hand and with the other stuffed my panties in Jim's duffel bag, which he had unzipped for me. Nobody seemed to be any the wiser.

"Trix, do you think you should go home? I mean, you don't want to be walking around in a short skirt and ummm… you know." For some reason Jim had a light sheen of perspiration on his brow.

"I'm going to stop by the girls' gym and pick up my gym shorts," I said. I stood up and asked him if he wanted to take a walk with me.

"Ummm…no, I'm just going to sit here for a minute."

I shrugged my shoulders and told him I'd see him later on the bus.

And you know what? Mart is going to pay for this.

**Jim's Journal**

Oh, _man_. Trixie and I were _finally_ alone in the cafeteria, if you think that eating with a couple hundred other kids is alone. What I mean is we didn't have any of our fellow Bob-Whites around. Alone time with my special girl is very hard to come by.

All of a sudden Trixie turned this peculiar shade of red. I swear, I don't think I ever saw her that red. She couldn't even answer me when I asked her what was wrong. When she did try to answer, she started to choke so I gave her a couple of taps on the back. To tell you the truth, I was almost kind of hoping I'd have to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Then she whispers to me her panties fell off. _Her panties_. She was sitting right there, next to me, and she tells me her panties are around her freaking ankles. I mean, I know she's naked under her clothes but it's not like I sit there and think about it all of the time.

Well, not _all_ of the time.

Then she tells me she didn't bring her book bag or anything that she could stuff them into. It took a minute or two for her words to soak in, because really, I know the word _honorable_ gets bandied about a lot about me, but geez. I _am_ a red-blooded heterosexual male. And my special girl is sitting next to me in a tight sweater and short skirt and _no panties_.

I leaned over a bit and unzipped my duffel bag and told her to put them in my bag. And then I started to think I really didn't want her walking around the school in that short skirt with ummm… no panties on.

Because believe me, nobody was going to see my Trix that way unless it was _me_.

She finally got the offending item zipped up securely in my bag and then she stood and told me she was going to go to get her gym shorts. Wanted to know if I wanted to take a walk. _I don't think so._

At least not right _then_. I needed to ummm, calm down a little bit.

Of course you might think this would be the end of the story. That Trixie and I met some time after school and made the exchange. _But noooooo_. Nothing is ever _that_ easy.

I watched her make her way through the cafeteria and I guess it was just my imagination that her round little bottom just jiggled a bit more. It was just my imagination that all the guys in the cafeteria were staring at her like she was an ice cream sundae and they all had spoons.

Mart and Dan finally showed up, asked where Trix was and I told him she went to the gym for something or another. We started talking about the latest happenings on ESPN and I forgot all about the little bomb in my duffle bag.

So you can guess what happened next.

There I was in the boys' gym, taking out my clean baseball uniform to put in my locker. I pulled it out and something crumpled fell on the floor. I couldn't imagine what it was, until I picked it up in my hand and shook it out.

Of course it wasn't my jockstrap. It was the tiniest pair of panties I ever seen with Wednesday scrawled across the back.

_Oh. My. God. _

Trixie's _panties_.

The funniest thought went through my head. Not the fact that I was standing in a boys' locker room holding my special girl's panties for all to see. _Nope._

I was wondering why Trixie had on _Wednesday's_ panties and it was _Friday_. I know I must've stared at them for several seconds before I crumpled them up in a ball in my hand and shoved them deep in my duffel bag.

I know I must've been bright red, because Coach came over to me, clapped me on my shoulder and asked me if I was okay. I saw a couple of the guys give me funny looks, but nobody said anything.

It seemed like such a _good_ idea at the time, back there in the cafeteria.

And now I'm trying to figure out how I could get them back to her.

And I really, really want to know if the elastic is going in the rest of the set. Because seriously, when it does, I certainly want to be there.


	11. In Her Garden

"Trix, I'm home!" Jim walked through the front door, throwing his car keys on the small table in the foyer of Ten Acres. He always hated to go into the city all dressed up in a suit. He'd much rather be out in the field, looking at new schools that the Foundation was helping to fund, hard hat on and architectural drawings in hand.

There was a part of him always worried what his wife was getting up to. He tried to squelch it, he really did, but it remained there like a sore tooth that you probe all the time with your tongue. You know it's there and that it hurts, yet you still have to keep touching it.

"Baby, I'm home." He peeked into the kitchen; something delicious was brewing in the crockpot, but she wasn't there. Nor was she in the living room, the formal dining room, the office or the library. He seriously doubted if she was upstairs taking a nap, because if she did get too tired he always found her asleep in the den.

He walked through the French doors onto the patio and looked out over the sparkling pool. Still no Trixie. Suddenly, he knew just where to find her.

In her gardens.

After all the grousing Trixie did about having to tend her mother's garden, there was no-one more amazed when she realized she inherited her mother's green thumb, in spades. Not only did she have an amazing way with growing things, but she actually enjoyed gardening. Who'd have thunk it?

Jim wandered down the fieldstone path, surrounded by bursts of summer color. Their gardens were astonishing, masses of blooms that flowed into each other in a colorful flood. There were arbors, arches and trellises; a garden gnome peeking out here and there; colorful glass globes on stands; fairylike creatures and whimsical frogs dotted amongst the blooms. There were hidden coves with elegant iron benches that invited one to sit down and commune with nature.

He knew where she'd be. There'd been some backbreaking labor by him and the other male BWGs, but the result had been worth it. They'd installed a natural stone waterfall that was run by solar power. The water bubbled down several inclines into a large pool that held a few water lilies, some rushes; other water-loving plants were scattered about the edge, interspersed with natural boulders. A few benches were scattered discreetly.

He rounded the bend on the path, and there she was. He just had to stop and catch his breath. Not because of the exertion of walking, no; it was just the _sight_ of her.

She was leaning against the back of the bench, her eyes closed and face tilted to the late afternoon sun, wearing a yellow sundress, sprigged with white daisies. Trixie slipped her slender feet out of the slides she had on. Her hands were resting protectively over her protruding abdomen. A small smile tilted the corners of her lips, and a yellow parasol lay on the ground beside her.

_She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen._ An ache grew in his heart, to see her surrounded by her beloved flowers looking like some pagan fertility goddess. To know that the unborn child her hands cradled so gently was one they created together; he did it _again_. He fell in love with her all over again, like he did every single day since he was 15. Even when he was with her, as intimate as two people could be, he ached for her deep inside. It was a hunger he could never satisfy.

He crossed over to her silently, bent down and touched his lips to hers. The small smile grew into a much larger one, and she said, "You better stop that. My husband should be home soon and he is extremely jealous."

He sat beside her, tugging on his curl. "Oh, I don't think you have to worry about your husband finding us together. I can take him."

She had to giggle. "He's very big, and he's very strong, and _oh! what are you doing, Jim_?" Her eyes snapped open, those sapphire gems that haunted him and that were now filled with surprised amusement.

He snaked a large hand under the hem of her dress, skimming her thighs and coming to rest directly on the hard curve of her abdomen. _His child_. He couldn't help the protective feeling that overcame him, couldn't fight the need to touch her, couldn't stop the desire to pull that dress up and kiss the taut skin there.

Trixie was flustered. "Jim! What if somebody comes?" She was trying to pull down her dress. That's all she would need, her father coming up on them in the garden with her dress over her head. She knew he loved and admired Jim, thought of him as another son; but he still was the man who took his little girl away and married her.

He helped her smooth her dress down, and pulled her into his lap, slanting his mouth over hers. His hand splayed across her eight months pregnant middle, and he moaned into her mouth. "God, baby, you're the most beautiful thing in the world."

She twined her slender, bare, arms around his neck and kissed his nose. "You're _so_ silly. I'm a million months pregnant, I can't see my toes, I must weigh a ton and _you_ think I'm beautiful." She knocked on his head with her knuckles. "Did you get a rap on that hard head of yours today?"

His emerald green eyes were dark and dazed with the feelings that were bubbling up in him. "No, Trix. You _are_ beautiful. I just love you so much. I know I should say it more, but it's always only been you."

Tears sprang to her eyes; she never cried easily, had turned into a waterworks with these pregnancy hormones battering at her. "I know you do, Jim. It's always only been _you_." A few crystal drops escaped, and he smoothed them away with his thumbs.

Then he could do nothing else but place his lips on hers again. As the hot summer sun grew a bit weaker, only the small creatures taking respite in the garden were witness to the tender scene unfolding.

A man, a woman and the new life they created right there, amidst the beauty of the blooms surrounding them, celebrating their joy.


	12. Scenes From a Marriage, Parts I & II

**Scenes from a Marriage Part I****  
**  
"…Trix. How could you tell Mickey Mack we're not related?" Jim was continuing the argument as they got into the car. He walked into the agency to pick her up, and saw his old acquaintance shaking her hand – and heard her answer to his question.

_"Are you by any chance related to Jim Frayne?" Mickey asked, giving her the once over._

_And his wife stood there and lied! At least, he thought it was a lie. "No, he's my husband," she responded with one of those thousand-watt smiles._

Trixie rolled her eyes and explained for the umpteenth time. "Because we're _not _related, Jim. We're _married_."

"I beg to differ, _Mrs. Frayne_. We're related by _marriage_." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

"No, my _family_ is related to you by marriage, just as yours is to me. But _we're_ not related," she paused, wrinkling her nose. "That would be _gross._"

Good Lord, she was maddening. "Well, then. Why do they call sex marital _relations_?" he asked triumphantly. _Let her answer that one!_ Victory was tasting mighty sweet.

She simply shrugged her shoulders. "Why do they call a mountain a mountain? They could have called it a mugwump."

He ground his teeth. "_Trixie_. When we married, when you took my name, we became a _family_. And a family is _related_."

"Our children will be related to both of us, because they have our DNA," Trixie countered. "But you and I, we're _married, _Jim. We're not _related_."

She sat back, enjoying the scenery and the little tiff. Because she knew if she got him hot enough, bothered enough, he'd lose that famed control of his and the make-up sex would be _incredible_.

But they still wouldn't be _related_.

**Scenes from a Marriage, Part Deux**  
  
Jim clambered up the trellis outside of Trixie's bedroom at Crabapple Farm, praying the thing would hold his weight. When he reached her window, he knocked softly and slid the sash up.

Trixie watched as he swung one leg inside the room, then the other. _Gleeps, he's so supple._ Her heart began to beat erratically. "Hi, baby," she whispered.

She was standing in a pool of light, a whisper-thin nightgown outlining every single curve, and suddenly, it didn't matter that he just took his life into his hands climbing up an old, rickety trellis. All that mattered was _her_, and unwrapping that pretty package to get at the heaven that lay underneath.

He was on her in a second, whispering her name, his large hands grasping the silk at her hips, backing her up towards the bed. Her hands were pulling at his belt buckle, making him moan out loud.

"Shhhh," she smiled up at him, before his mouth crashed down on hers and they fell on the bed.

"Did you hear something?" Peter Belden looked up over his reading glasses at his pretty wife. "I thought I heard something."

Helen smiled at her clueless spouse. "Peter. It's only Jim climbing up the trellis again. They're playing… _again_."

"Geez, Helen, they're _married_! Why can't he walk through the front door like anyone else? Or climb the trellises at Ten Acres?" Peter snorted.

Running a slender finger over his arm, she whispered, giving him a saucy wink, "I suspect you need to speak to your daughter about _that_."


	13. S'mores

August is a strange month, Trixie thought as she stared out of her window. The days were hot, sometimes humid and sticky; but the nights were cool, giving everyone a little taste of autumn. As usual, her eyes followed the path up the hill to Manor House, now hidden behind trees, its lights barely visible.

Her best friend in the world, Honey Wheeler, was up there along with her… what? Trixie didn't quite know how to classify Honey's handsome adopted brother, Jim Frayne. A friend? To be sure. Something **more** than a friend?

Well, **that** remained to be seen.

She was feeling rather melancholy this evening; the best years in her short life, the last two, were drawing to an inevitable close. Her brother Brian and Jim were off to college in a couple of weeks, and that would forever change the fabric of the Bob-Whites of the Glen. The days when the seven of them saw each other every day, met in the Clubhouse, had barbeques at the lake… all that was going to shift into a new normalcy.

The seven would become five, and the year after that, three.

And finally, the year after that, the BWGs would cease to exist in the tiny Westchester County village of Sleepyside. They would scatter to college, and maybe never recapture their closeness again.

In many ways it really sucked, growing up.

In others, Trixie was more than ready to begin to step into her new role as a responsible young adult. She could not help wishing on a star that Jim would see her as more adult, and not the young girl he referred to as 'his special girl'.

Just what did that mean, anyway? He had given her a bracelet with his name on it after a scary adventure where they and Honey almost drowned in a flood. He lectured her about opening a detective agency and how dangerous it was for two women. Trixie almost thought he was going to call her his girlfriend then.

Jim stopped himself from blurting out whatever he was going to label her, and Trixie began to think she imagined the whole thing. After a while, she supposed that the dainty little sterling silver bracelet was just his way of showing her his gratitude for her for saving them, and for all that she supposedly did for him.

Of course, it **was** her fault that they were in a flood to begin with, as Mart pointed out quite a few times after they were rescued.

As Trixie sat on her window seat, she drew her knees up to her chest, and rested her chin on them. Jim was going down to New Jersey in a couple of weeks; Princeton University had extended him an offer he couldn't refuse.

Brian on the other hand, received a full scholarship to Johns Hopkins University and was going to Baltimore. He and Jim always thought they would be roommates, but fate decided otherwise.

And that was precisely it, Trixie realized. She always thought the BWGs would end up, if not in the same school, at least in the same city and state. God only knew what college Mart and Dan would attend, and then there were the three female members. Trixie had no hope at all of getting into an Ivy League university like Princeton, unless they suddenly decided to give scholarships to would-be teenage sleuths.

Jim would be down there at the pretty campus, full of ivy-covered buildings and exciting, beautiful, tall college women. Maybe he wasn't dating anyone now, but she was sure that would change once he settled in down there. He was handsome; he was wealthy, not only through his adopted family but in his own right; he was intelligent and caring.

And he would be in a school where the women would be of his class and wealth. Cultured, refined I-went-to-a Swiss-finishing-school glamour girls who could move easily in the rarefied air of the extremely affluent.

Not a short young woman with tangled blonde curls, stupid freckles and the uncanny ability to trip at just the wrong moments.

Trixie remained seated and sighed again. She needed to prepare herself to smile brightly and give an Academy Award winning performance when Jim brought home a girlfriend.

And smashed her heart into teeny, tiny smithereens.

James Winthrop Frayne II was staring out of his window in the opulent Manor House, down the hill to the hollow and Crabapple Farm. The trees were still in full leaf, and he could barely make out the twinkling light on the porch of the lovely farmhouse. He wondered if Trixie was still awake, and if she was, what she was doing.

The less-honorable part of him wanted to steer his thoughts to what she was wearing, but he quashed **that **thought.

He rearranged his long, lean body on his window seat, and felt an unaccustomed twinge of trepidation. In a couple of weeks he'd be leaving the place he called home for two years of his life, and starting all over **again** in an unfamiliar, celebrated college town.

Granted, Princeton was only a couple of hours away by car, but a part of him – a large part of him – did not want to leave Sleepyside. He had friends, a family and a sister he loved.

And her.

**Trixie**.

He had to smile; that lopsided grin that caused women's knees to go weak whenever he flashed it. For a gifted, intuitive, nascent detective, she sure was clueless at times.

And he was clueless on how to move their relationship from friend to something more. He knew she thought he wanted some sort of pretty, plastic society heiress, but she couldn't be farther from the truth.

He wanted **her**. He wanted those tangled blonde curls that made his hands itch to touch them; he wanted to kiss all those fading golden freckles on her nose; and he wanted to hold her close, to feel all those generous curves she had recently developed. She was just what a woman should be, in his opinion. Curvy and soft with big blue eyes and…

Jim knew she hadn't been permitted to date until she was fifteen. She turned fifteen in May; he was seventeen, and he **still** hadn't asked her. In two weeks, he would be on his way to Princeton, leaving her at the mercy of all those boys in high school. He saw the way some of them looked at her.

He didn't like it. In fact, he absolutely hated it.

He remembered his biological father talking to him, man-to-man, when Jim was little more than ten. His parents often told him the story of them; although he wrinkled his nose and pretended to be grossed out over love, he was secretly enthralled. On that day, Win Frayne explained to him about the Frayne Curse.

At first, Jim was afraid it was something like the Mummy's Curse and a monster would be after him that he would have to defeat using his brains and brawn. But it wasn't **that** sort of a curse, Win smiled at him. They were brushing down the horses, and his Dad took him off to the side.

He now wondered if Dad had some inkling he would not be around to watch his only child become a man.

_Be careful of who you fall in love with,_ Dad told him. _Frayne men fall in love once, and it is forever._ He was lucky, Dad said; Katie and he had been childhood sweethearts. Jim remembered at the time thinking of the little girls in his school; none of them made him feel anything other than a vague sort of male disgust.

When he told his Dad that, his dad just laughed and his green eyes lit from within. "That will change, Jim. That will change." Jim just rolled his eyes, but he never forgot his Dad's caution.

And it all happened, just as his father had warned, in the blink of an eye in an old mansion, when the tall redhead faced off against the petite blonde dynamo, the length of a shotgun between them.

He lifted one pajama clad leg onto the window seat, leaning his arm against it and sighed. He needed to make a move, and he had none.

None at all.

It was the last blast of the summer at the lake. The boathouse was brightly lit with cute flip-flop shaped lanterns; the grill had been going for hours and was now finally cooling down, and bikinis and swim trunks were replaced with shorts and t-shirts and hoodies.

A bonfire was burning in the fire pit, its flames shooting up tiny sparks that were like quickly winking out fireflies as the hour grew late and the night shadows encroached.

"I am **so** stuffed," Diana Lynch complained, groaning and holding her belly. "I must have gained five pounds!" The seven of them had been there almost all day, reveling in their closeness and one of the last times they would all be together, at least until the holidays.

Mart glanced over at his girlfriend's svelte figure and laughed. "Ms. Lynch, you are as beautiful, and as sylphlike, as ever." His heartfelt words caused her to blush as he wrapped his arm around her.

"I hate to break this up," Mart continued, but I need to drive Diana home and it's getting late." Di's family was off to Uncle Monty's ranch for a few days while he celebrated 20 years in the business; they were leaving the next day.

"Jim, one more s'more to go," Diana begged. She was full to the brim, but the delicious treats made of melted marshmallows and Hershey bars sandwiched between two graham cracker crusts were just too good not to have another.

"Coming right up!" Jim began to assemble the goodie as Mart gathered the cooler they brought, and the empty cake dish that was a testament to the baking prowess of his girlfriend.

Jim handed her the treat as they called their goodbyes and walked off into the purple shadows. Brian and Honey were the next to leave; he wanted some alone time with his girlfriend, something that was going to be very scarce in the next couple of weeks.

Dan unfolded his length from the beach chair, folded it and stored it away, along with the others. _If Frayne doesn't make a move now, he's never going to do it. _Both Jim and Trixie were staring at the other, longing in their eyes, when they thought the other wasn't looking.

They had both been rather quiet, too, Dan realized.

"You guys can take care of the fire, right?" he asked the question rhetorically. And just to add fuel to that fire, he turned to Trixie. "Tad Webster was asking about you yesterday. I had to run to town for Mr. Maypenny, and I met him in the hardware store. He said to tell you he was asking about you and that he'd see you when school starts."

"Gleeps! I wonder if he has a mystery for us to solve," Trixie mused, and Dan barely suppressed his laugh with a cough. _Yeah, the mystery is what you have under that thin tank top, Trix, and, oh my, isn't Jim's face a sight to behold?_ Even in the shadows, he could see the tight look on Jim's face. _Your move, Frayne._

"See you guys later." Whistling, Dan picked up some of the trash and headed off into the forest and home to the cabin he loved.

"I guess that just leaves us now, Trix." _Way to state the obvious, Frayne._ Could he get **any** lamer?

Trixie was standing in the shadows and moved closer to the fire, and Jim stared as the flames gilded his golden girl. "Um, yeah." As she spoke, his eyes zeroed in on those pretty pink lips of hers. The lips that had a smear of chocolate on the corner from a s'more.

Unable to stop himself, his green gaze fixated on that little droplet marring her perfection, Jim stepped closer to her. Her sapphire eyes were trapped by the strange light in his, and it became hard to breathe.

He lifted his hand, that strong but gentle hand, as if he was going to tug on his curl. Instead, it slid into her curls, his thumb caressing her cheek. "You have… you have chocolate on your lips." His voice was hoarse, his heart was beating so fast it was a wonder it just didn't leap out of his chest. His fingers trembled with the need to touch more of her soft skin.

"I do?" Was that her voice that came out so breathless and almost sultry? His touch was making her lightheaded and it felt so very delightful.

Trixie doomed him by swiping the tip of her tongue on her bottom lip, leaving a thin, wet trail and an aching need in his gut.

"You missed it." It wasn't enough for his thumb to be there; oh, no, Jim had to lean in and taste. She didn't object as he tipped her face up and brought his lips down on hers. She had been waiting for this, it seemed, all of her life. And then she couldn't think at all.

His special girl was responding in just the way he wanted her to; his other arm went around her, clamping her to him as his tongue begged entrance. Trixie opened her mouth to him, brightly colored lights popping behind her closed eyelids as they tasted each other for the first time. But not the last. **Definitely **not the last.

They both shuddered when his tongue found that little drip of chocolate and licked it off and then they were kissing again; again and again until they were both breathless with the quite mundane need for oxygen.

They stepped away, just a little, to combat the desire that was raging though them. Jim did tug her curl then as she opened her eyes to discover the passion and love reflected in his.

"I love you." Her hand went to Jim's cheek, slightly raspy with beard as she threw caution to the wind and made her declaration.

"And I love you, Trixie. Please be my girl, wait for me." Hope lit his expressive eyes.

"S'more," she said, as she nodded her head and smiled. She was staring at his lips, making no secret of just what she wanted s'more of. "I want s'more."

Jim was **very** happy to oblige.

A few weeks later, Tad Webster sat glumly in the cafeteria with a few of his friends. "Why the long face, Webster?" Saul Goldstein turned around to see what Webster was staring at so intently. Ah. **Girls**. The beauteous Diana Lynch and Honey Wheeler… and whatever happened to Trixie Belden over the summer, she was as pretty and glowing as either of her friends. "Wow, Trixie's lookin' good." Yeah, he'd tap that, now that Frayne was not around.

"Don't even think about it, Goldie." Tad rolled his eyes. "Frayne **finally** made his move and he has her wrapped up so tight, I fully expect an invitation to their wedding the day after Trixie graduates."

"Man, that sucks. You ever notice all the good-looking chicks in this school are taken? I can't wait to graduate." Saul took a peek back at the table with the trio of young women.

There was a gold chain around Trixie's neck, and dangling down was a large, senior class ring. Yup. Frayne finally **did** make his move.

And the rest of the BWGs never did figure out why Jim and Trixie suddenly wanted to make s'mores **all**the time.


	14. The Balcony, Popcorn & You

Honey slammed into the clubhouse, not one whit the elegant Miss of the Manor House, or her usual calm, cool self. She was blazing, anger lighting up her topaz eyes like an amber flame. And the object of her ire faced off against her, hands on narrow hips; a frown marring his handsome face – and just as wrathful as she was.

"I just don't get you, Brian Belden," she ground out, teeth clenched. "I really don't. Why did you have to embarrass Jim and Trixie like that at the Cameo?"

Brian shrugged, a male gesture designed to raise her internal temperature even higher.

"I don't like _your_ brother pawing at _my _sister. Especially in the balcony of a public theater." His hand ran through his thick, black, wavy locks. "He had his hand…"

"I know _exactly_ where he had his hand, you jerk. And I am positive if _Trixie _did not want his hand there, she would have let him know in no uncertain terms."

Brian widened his eyes in surprise until they were coal black nuggets. "Yeah, and like _my _sister would have stopped him. This is _Jim_ we're talking about, Honey. Trixie would let him shave her head if he asked nicely enough," he snorted.

"Look, Brian. It's not your place to interfere. Neither is it mine. What goes on between Jim and Trixie, well, it's theirs. You didn't have to bellow like that in the theater. It was so embarrassing."

Her cheeks pinked at the remembrance of Brian's earsplitting shout of _"Frayne! That's my sister! Watch your hands!" _Just about everyone in the balcony turned to look at them.

Brian scrubbed a hand over his face. "Yeah, well I guess it wasn't one of my finer, subtler moments," he admitted.

"No it wasn't," Honey agreed. "I just don't know why you're so upset about Jim stealing some of Trixie's popcorn."

Brian closed his eyes and pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Popcorn?" His voice was incredulous. "He was getting _popcorn_? The _bucket _was in her lap?"

Honey rolled her eyes. "What did you… oh my God, Brian! You thought…you thought…" she couldn't hold the laughter in any longer, and it pealed out of her like so many silver bells.

"Oh, I am _soooo_ dead," Brian groaned, just as the clubhouse door swung open to reveal the very annoyed faces of the mortified couple.


	15. Handlebar Heaven

Seventeen-and-a-half-year-old Trixie Belden didn't have to worry when she deplaned at Logan Airport in Boston, Massachusetts. All she had to do was look for a shock of red hair. Her boyfriend, Jim Frayne, was waiting impatiently for her.

At least, she _imagined_ he was waiting impatiently. The flight was only about an hour, not factoring in TSA delays and being stacked up for a few minutes waiting to land. She was fidgeting in her seat, eager to see him after being apart for two months.

Jim, nineteen, _was_ impatient, shuffling from foot to foot. When the plane's arrival was announced, he breathed a sigh of relief. She was here, in the same city, breathing the same air.

Finally.

Jim never thought he would end up in Boston, of all places. He had the scholarship he won to an in-state college back in New York when he was fifteen years old and an abused, scared, defiant orphan. His life had taken a 180° turn since then. He was wealthy beyond his wildest dreams; he had a family who he loved and who loved back; he had traveled overseas with them extensively; and he met the love of his life in his uncle's decaying old mansion. The girl next door. What a romance novel cliché!

On a whim, he had applied to Harvard and was accepted. It was… disconcerting. Of course he was proud but that meant leaving her. He and Brian always planned on going to college together, maybe even rooming together in a New York university. He always thought to be within easy commuting distance of Trixie.

Jim was offered an almost full ride to the prestigious university in Boston, and Brian Belden was offered the chance of a lifetime. A full ride at Johns Hopkins University, including medical school if he met the stringent scholastic guidelines.

That first year away from Sleepyside, from his family, his best friend and his special girl, was miserable. He chose to stay in the dorms, and that became an issue. Even at Harvard, students partied hearty. His roommate, a legacy, nicknamed him St. Jim. He tried to entice Jim into going out, having fun, attending frat parties and the like. Sam told him often that there was a bevy of beauties just waiting out there. Ready, willing and able to do just about _anything_ for a Harvard boy. Why be stuck on some little high-schooler in the Podunk town he was from?

Especially since he never professed his ardor to said girl.

The absolute last straw was when Jim came home from the library and found a naked woman in his bed, courtesy of Sam. A gift, Sam argued while the girl just lounged in Jim's bed, to let Jim see what he was missing. Why, Sandy would do _everything _Jim's little heart desired, and some things St. Jim probably never dreamed of.

Therefore, Sam and Sandy were both surprised when Jim told the girl to get dressed and get the hell out. He was steaming, and both of them were treated to a dose of the Famous Frayne Temper. At the end of freshman year, he rented a lovely little house in Cambridge, within walking distance of the school and all the wonderful experiences Boston had to offer.

As he waited for the passengers to come through the gate, Jim thought back to the summer after his first year in Boston. The summer that he and Trixie finally declared themselves. And it all began with an old Schwinn bicycle.

**_Two Summers Ago_**

_Trixie yelled up the stairs to Moms. "I finished dusting, Moms. Okay if I go for a bike ride?" _

_She was kinda lonely. Jim, Brian, Mart and Dan were working at the camps upstate again and not due home until later on that day. Honey and her mother were visiting Vivienne Riker, her mother's sister, and Honey's pain-in-the-butt cousin, Ben, in Paris for six weeks, again. It was becoming a summer tradition for the mother and daughter. Diana was working at Uncle Monty's dude ranch, as she did every summer. _

_A couple of weeks earlier, Trixie, her father and Bobby (who really was no help at all, Trixie groused) decided to clean the big barn on the Belden property. It took the better part of a two weekends, but Trixie unearthed an old-style Schwinn bike. It had a basket in front and the back had a seat for a passenger right above the rear wheel. It had one speed and it was her favorite blue. _

_"Gosh, I haven't seen that since I was a kid," Peter remarked. The tires were flat and the chrome a bit rusty. His chocolate eyes grew far away as he remembered the good times he had on Fury. _

_"Fury, Daddy?" Trixie smirked. This sad old bike, _Fury_? _

_"It was the name of an old television show when I was a kid, I'll have you know." Peter said, stung. "Fury was a gorgeous horse and every week helped to save some hapless fool on a dude ranch. He only let one boy ride him, and I used to imagine this old bike here was Fury and I was that boy." Peter leaned on the shovel he had in his hands, a small smile tilting his lips. _

_Bobby rolled his eyes. "Sounds cool, Dad. Can I go over Larry and Terry's now?" he whined. _

_It was Peter's turn to roll his eyes. "Go. But you're going to have extra chores later, Robert." He shook his head as his holy terror ran out. "Your mother spoiled him." _

_"I think we _all_ did, Daddy." Trixie was eying the old bike. With a little elbow grease she could spiff it up. Her old bike had been stolen at the high school months back, and she didn't feel the need to replace it. But, with this bike, she could ride around the countryside. Maybe get some of those unwanted pounds off. _

_Before Jim came home from camp. _

_Gleeps, when Brian and Jim came home from camp after their first year, they seemed so much older. More sophisticated and experienced. She wondered if they still cared about the BWGs at all. Of course, they did. After a few awkward moments, they were all back to their normal selves. _

_Jim immediately noticed how beautiful and grown-up Trixie looked. She lost a lot of her baby fat, not that it mattered to him anyway, or it moved to give her splendiferous curves. _

_She was growing out her hair, too, and it surrounded her healthy, glowing face with a sunshiny halo. _

_He cornered her in the Clubhouse, much to the amusement of the other males. They would have bet the first thing Jim would do was haul Trixie off for a private conversation. "How were the last few months of school?" he demanded. "What have you been doing all summer with Honey in Paris, Di in Arizona and all the rest of us upstate?" A part of him really didn't want to know. What if she said she was dating; had fallen in love? He thought he might die, then. _

_She smiled up at him and took his breath away. "Well, I had a busy summer, believe it or not. I had a summer job at Sleepyside Mall at one of the food stands." She wrinkled her pert nose. "Believe me when I tell you that I hope I never see another chocolate chip cookie for the rest of my life! I also helped the PBA with the recreational league for girls' basketball. And chores, and riding all the horses with Regan; checking on Mr. Maypenny and Mrs. Vanderpoel. I haven't had time to catch my breath!" _

_Jim noticed right away that his special girl didn't mention dating or a boyfriend. That still didn't quiet his restless heart. Not until he heard her voice confirm that fact. "You have had a busy summer! Did you attend any of the dances in town?" _

_Trixie rolled her eyes. "I was so tired most nights, I just flopped into bed. We all went to the 4__th__ of July celebration, but only to see the fireworks." She didn't mention to Jim that several boys had asked her to dance. They were only being kind to Tomboy Trixie. _

_Di and Honey arrived at the Clubhouse, and the intimate moment was lost. _

_A couple of days later, Jim was walking through the preserve. He'd be going back up to Boston for his sophomore year, and he had no idea how to let Trixie know how much he missed her. How much he still wondered if she was his special girl. How much he wanted to kiss those inviting, full lips and run his fingers through her soft curls. _

_How much he simply wanted. _

_Her. _

_He wasn't paying attention to where he was walking and had ended up on Glen Road, down pastLytell's General Store. He glanced at the dusty parking lot, empty of cars, wondering – not for the first time, either – how the man managed to stay in business. He must be a bookie or doing a hell of a lot of internet sales. Or maybe he was Frank Lytell, International Man of Mystery. _

_Jim glanced down the deserted road and saw a figure in the distance, riding an old-fashioned bicycle. The glint of the sun off a riot of golden curls peeping out of a helmet… he was sure it was Trixie. Riding a bike? The closer she rode, the more he wondered just what she was doing. _

_Trixie saw the tall redhead in the distance and her pulse quickened. Jim! Gleeps, here she was all sweaty and dressed in spandex shorts and a cropped top. Darn it. She probably looked like some stupid kid instead of the young woman who wanted to entice his attention. _

_She stopped when she reached him, removing the helmet and fluffing her hair. "Hi, Jim." She tilted her head and slew him with those big sapphire questioning eyes. "Why are you walking down Glen Road?" _

_Jim coughed several times, because his mouth was so dry, his tongue was just about glued to the roof of it. He closed his eyes briefly and prayed that he'd have the strength not to just yank her into his arms and taste her lips the way he wanted to. "I… I wasn't really walking down the road, Trix; well, at least not intentionally. I was hiking through the preserve, thinking about things and I ended up here" He smiled shyly. "I guess I wasn't quite paying attention to where I was going." He gestured to Trixie's bike. "Where did you get that? It looks like PeeWee Herman's bike in _PeeWee's Big Adventure."

_"It was my dad's. We found it when we gave the barn a giant makeover. I cleaned it up a bit and if the weather was nice, I was riding it to work and back. Now I that I am officially jobless, I'm just doing it for exercise." _

_She clipped the strap to her helmet and hung it from the handlebars. Her hair was in a tousled ponytail, with long tendrils around her glowing face. They began walking slowly down Glen Road, the first chance they had to be alone. _

_"I really missed everyone this year," Jim confessed to her. "This first year was getting used to college and trying to ignore Sam, my now ex-roommate. I just really missed… you." _

_Trixie's heart flip-flopped in her chest. Did he really mean what he was saying? He missed her, most of all? "I missed you, so much." Her voice was so soft he had to strain to hear it. They stopped walking, facing each other with the Schwinn between them. _

_His strong, gentle fingers touched her jaw tenderly. "Did you, Shamus? I thought about you every day. I looked forward to your emails and texts. So very much." _

_Trixie placed her hand on the broad expanse of his chest, where she was surprised to feel his heart thumping as if it was about to leap out of its confinement. Jim let the bike lean against him as he covered her fingers with his. His eyes were darkening as he gazed at her lips, wanting to taste them so badly, it was a palpable ache in his gut. _

_"Jim?" Her voice was a husky whisper, her eyes asking the question she dare not give voice to. The whole world went quiet while they stood there on Glen Road, giving life to the entity that had ghosted between them for so long. It was as if it could not be confined any longer as it soared from them and grew stronger. _

_"Trix." The sweetest sound and his head bent to hers. There they were, on a dusty country road surrounded by a magnificent, primeval forest; an old, forgotten bike between them. She was a bit sweaty and he was too, just from being near her and his own nervousness at the jump he was about to take. It was somehow right that his lips lowered to hers in such a setting. _

_It was simply them. _

_The instant their lips brushed, casually at first and then with increasing pressure, their worlds suddenly came in focus. Like the click of a camera shutter capturing the crystal clarity of a scene, their fates were delivered. _

_One kiss became many, out there on the road, as they lost themselves in each other. There were murmurs of love, of want and desire; of loneliness and redemption. His hands were finally on her soft, hot skin and she slipped hers under his shirt and onto the corded muscles of his back. _

_Oxygen became of paramount importance and they broke, flushed and exhilarated. "I love you, Trixie," Jim rasped. "I'm in love with you since always." _

_Her telling eyes sparkled with unshed tears. It was her best, most wonderful dream come true. "I love you right back, James Winthrop Frayne II. So much you'll never know." _

_He bent to take her lips again when a car beeped at them, reminding them they were still on a country road. Jim grinned, a little embarrassed, as Trixie tipped her head down to hide her blush. _

_"What do you say I give you a ride home and then ask if it's okay with your parents if we go to dinner?" He was winding one of her escaped curls around his finger and she could barely concentrate on his words. _

_"Okay, but I think we'll have to walk back. The seat is much too low for your long legs. Besides," she grimaced. "The passenger seat in the back is not in very good condition and there are sharp edges." _

_"I wasn't a Boy Scout for nuthin!" Jim pulled out his Swiss Army Knife and proceeded to adjust the seat for his great height. "And you can ride on the handlebars." _

_"The handlebars?" Trixie wrinkled her nose at him. _

_"Yeah. I used to be the Handlebar Passenger Riding Champ of Rochester, New York," Jim boasted. _

_Trixie's eye widened as she gathered that little nugget of information to her heart. Jim so very rarely spoke of his former life that any information he imparted was hoarded like the purest gold. _

_"You haven't been in Rochester for a long time," Trixie baited him. "How do I know I'm not going to end up nursing a bruised behind?" She wiggled it a little, just to make her point. _

_"Because, baby, I'd never let anything happen to your lovely um, bum." He stared at it with male appreciation. _

_"But won't it be distracting for you?" _

_"Nope. Nothing will stay this courier from his appointed delivery," he laughed. _

_"So, you're saying I won't divert your attention to my fine rear end, or curly hair or…" _

_"Nothing. After all, I have precious cargo." He waggled his eyebrows at her as he straddled the bike in one supple movement. "Here, let me help you up." He wasn't paying attention to where she planted her feet, and was shocked when, instead of sitting on the bars with her back to him, she faced him. She steadied herself by placing her feet on the sloping frame. _

_"Umm, Trixie? You're supposed to sit the other way." Jim began to sweat lightly. This was intimate. Her legs between his, her body close and her beautiful face even closer. How the hell could he concentrate on the road when she was blinking those big blue headlights at him? Haunting eyes that were filled with amusement at his predicament. _

_"What's that you say, Jim?" Trixie held a hand to her ear. "About no distractions?" _

_Jim swallowed, hard. "Okay you little vixen. _No _distractions." He hoped. Nope, no distractions from the kiss-swollen lips he just ravished moments before; none from the twinkling eyes, nor from the curves that were barely concealed. Especially none from the long smooth legs resting so naturally between his. _

_Trixie giggled as Jim began to peddle, watching the road and trying not to notice the curls that were dancing around her face. He got a good rhythm going, was ready to call victory, when she decided to play dirty. _

_Her hands crept up to his shoulders and she leaned forward, tilting her head up. Those luscious lips were right within striking distance, and gleeps, to borrow a phrase. How could any red-blooded heterosexual 17-year-old male resist? _

_It was handlebar heaven._

Yeah, Jim reminisced. They had pedaled down Glen Road, the front wheel wobbling dangerously as they kissed and kissed some more. And now, two years later, she was here in Boston for a weekend visit. Just the two of them.

He watched for her long blonde curls and saw her first through the crowd of bored businessmen. In a few steps he reached her, pulling her up, bag and all, into his strong arms. "Baby," he breathed, afraid it was all a dream.

"Jim." Oblivious to the smiles and stares around them, they met in a fevered kiss. "C'mon, baby," he took her bag, breathing heavily. "Let's get back to my place."

A short taxi ride later, Trixie was at the charming small house Jim had on one of the historic Cambridge streets. It was lovely, two bedrooms, one which Jim converted to an office, and a full bath upstairs. Downstairs was an eat-in kitchen, another bathroom, and a large living room. The full finished basement had a laundry area/family room.

Jim waved to a couple of people as he ushered his girlfriend inside the house. "Ah, you can sleep in my bedroom and I'll take the couch, baby." He kept reminding himself she was only seventeen and half. The little devil on his shoulder whispered in his ear. _Seventeen and a half but past the age of legal consent. _

"No." It was all she said.

"No, you want the couch, Trix?" It really might be more comfortable for her, since she was so petite.

"No."

Jim was confused. "No, you don't want the couch or no, you don't want the bedroom?"

"No, we're both sleeping upstairs tonight. In your bed. In _our _bed." She stepped forward, hoping her daring move wouldn't put him off. Trixie splayed her hands across his broad chest, feeling his muscles jump.

"T… Trix?" _Ohmigod._ Did he hear her correctly? She wanted to sleep with him? Did she mean sleep or _sleep?_

"I want to be with you, Jim, in every way possible." She went up on tiptoe and kissed his slack mouth. "Now, take me for a tour of Cambridge and all the spots where hot young Harvard guys congregate."

He looked at her blankly for a moment, until his brain caught up with her words instead of his libido. Growling playfully, he said, "I better be the _only_ hot young Harvard guy you have eyes for." He tapped her bottom lightly. He glanced upstairs and his mind went into overdrive.

_Do I have protection? _Tom Delanoy had pressed a box of condoms in his hands upon Jim's departure for Harvard with a wink and smirk._ Do I still have them? Were they still good? Should they stop and buy more? What if I don't satisfy her? _

Trixie smiled up at him, knowing where his fertile mind landed as soon as she saw those bright green eyes glance up to where the bedroom was waiting. "James." She placed one small hand on either side of his beloved, freckled face. "Don't worry. I have us covered." Inside her luggage was an assortment she picked up from Planned Parenthood.

"Um. Okay." His voice was throaty, deep and raspy. "Ah, what was it you said you want to do now?"

"I want to go see all the spots where you hot Harvard guys hang out, grab something to eat and come back here and not get out of bed for the rest of the weekend," she giggled, surprised to see the suave Mr. Frayne flustered. "And then after that, I want to get married in the summer." She bit her bottom lip, a little surprised at her audacity.

A slow, sexy grin spread across Jim's face. He flicked a curl, his curl, out of the way. "You do, do you?" he laughed. "Well… okay, okay, absolutely and yes." His arm stole around her as he led her out back. "I have a surprise for you. Close your eyes."

Once they were in the yard, she heard some rustling noises and bounced from one foot to the next, eager to see her surprise.

"Open them up now." She opened them to see Jim straddling an-almost twin of her bicycle back home, the one that brought them so close together.

"Hop on, baby," Jim smiled, helping her onto the handlebars. "Handlebar heaven awaits. You can even" he leered, "Ring my bell."

And do you know what? She did; he did the tour; they had a romantic dinner; stayed in the rest of the weekend and, the weekend after Trixie's high school graduation, lived happily ever after.


	16. Ch-ch-ch Changes

"Hello, Mart." There it was. The voice he hadn't heard in two years. It sounded the same, but yet it didn't. Where once that beloved voice was light and full of the joy of youth, it was now older. Maybe wiser. But still haunting.

His blonde head shot up, drinking in the sight of her, like a tall, cold beer on a hot summer's day. But he knew if you drank it too fast, let it in too fast, you were likely to just crave more instead of slaking your thirst.

He spent a long time after she left craving more. And being oh, so thirsty.

In the space of a millisecond his brain catalogued all the changes in her. Her hair was still that true blue-black; her eyes still the most incredible shade of violet. She was thinner, and her skin darker - he supposed from the hot, unrelenting sun of Kolkata.

But it was her magnificent eyes that commandeered most of his consideration. Most of his attention. When they were together, he had seen the most amazing expressions in them. Happiness, the joy of being young and alive. Fright, because she really wasn't made to go traipsing after criminals. She wasn't like his sister and her best friend. The biggest mystery she ever wanted to solve was what to wear that morning.

And love. He liked to think he saw that shining out of her eyes when she looked at him. When they danced together. When they shared their first kiss. Maybe even when she told him she was leaving. That going over there to work with the missionaries in the harsh slums was something she had to do.

They were quiet eyes now. Quiet and steadfast in their regard of him. There was no more 'shy Di'.

No, they were adult eyes now. Eyes that had seen more suffering than could ever occur here in a sleepy New York village in Westchester County. There was a question in those eyes, too, one he had no intention of answering right now.

"Hello, Diana." If she had learned things during the past twenty-four months, then so had he. The bleakness in his soul, for one. The harsh feeling of being deserted. How to hide the hurt from concerned family and friends. How to come out of the other side of soul-destroying loneliness, maybe not quite the same, never the same, but at least whole.

"May I come in?" Where once she would have leaped into the old gatehouse, into his arms, her voice was stiffly polite.

He shrugged one shoulder. "You don't have to ask. It's just as much your right to be here as it is mine."

A fleeting expression flashed in her eyes, too fast for him to get a good read on it. A small smile tilted the corners of her lips. "I haven't been around too much lately," she joked. "Things change."

"Yeah. Things change." His voice was flat, unemotional.

He glanced back at the parts of the fishing reel he was repairing, and felt, rather than heard her enter the clubhouse and sit at the opposite end of the table. That, in and of itself, was a change. There was a time she would have run in and plopped in his lap, greeting him with a kiss.

And he would have kissed her back, laughing and not believing the prettiest girl in Sleepyside was _his_.

He should have known it was too good to be true.

He fiddled a bit with the small gears, not knowing what to say. Mart finally leveled his bright blue gaze on the quiet woman at the end of the table. "Why are you here, Di?"

Well now. That was direct. Why was she here? "My time with the Little Sisters of Mercy has ended. I'm back home. For good."

"Did you find out everything you needed to find out there?" _And not here. Not with me._ The last remained unspoken, but understood.

Diana stared down at her hands, primly folded in her lap, and thought about how she might answer Mart. She heard Mother Superior's kind voice. _The truth. Just tell the truth. It is the best gift you can give someone._

She lifted her head and stared directly into his eyes. "I needed to go, Mart. You know, I was always defined by something or somebody else. When we were...less affluent, I was the girl whose mother had two sets of twins, not that those Lynches could afford it. When my father's invention took off, I became the rich Diana Lynch." She clasped her hands together, a sure sign of nerves.

He remained silent. So they both had changed. Once upon a time he would have jumped in, expressing his opinion in three-dollar words, steamrollering over her soft voice and making her feel stupid.

"Then I was the prettiest girl in town, but not the smartest. I was still the girl whose family had tons of money but didn't know the difference between candied and candid. A BWG. Mart Belden's girlfriend. Nobody bothered to look beneath the surface." Her hands had tightened into fists, and she took the time to unclench them, soothe her disordered feelings.

"Why didn't you say something to me? Tell me how you were feeling?" The questions burst out of him, and he couldn't keep the bitter tone from his voice. "You just _left_."

"Mart, I _tried_ to tell you. Many times. Many, many times. Do you remember when we went to your prom?" Diana waited for his curt nod. "You were talking with Tad Webster about identity theft. I started to say something about Tilney Britton. You just patted me on the head and told me not to worry my pretty little head about it. Almost any time you were having a deep conversation with someone, and I wanted to join in, you... you patronized me. It was always a variation of don't worry about it, you're too pretty to do so. I began to feel like all I could ever be was an empty-headed doll for everyone to play with."

Mart visibly paled at the onslaught of her words. "Di, that's not true," he defended himself. But he knew she was speaking the truth. He remembered dismissing her, time after time, wanting to save her the embarrassment of being wrong. Of making him look bad. Of having to explain the words he used so effortlessly.

She smiled a bit sadly. "It _is_ true, Mart. You know it as well as I." When he started to bluster, she held up a slender hand. "I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. Just stating the facts as I knew them to be. So, I went to find myself. Totally cliché, right?"

"Did you? Did you _find_ yourself in India?" He just could not imagine Diana Lynch at home among the poor, in the slums, _finding _herself.

A genuine smile split her face, making her look more like the prettiest girl in Sleepyside. "I think I did. I found more than I ever bargained for. More than I ever dreamed of."

He continued to work on the fishing reel as they spoke, glancing up every now and then. What did she want, exactly? Absolution? Another chance? She wasn't being forthcoming about why she was at the Clubhouse in the first place.

Diana could see the wheels turning round and round in Mart's busy brain. Now that the time had come for their reunion, such as it was, she was out of words. "I haven't really seen any of the others yet," she explained to him. "I spoke to Trixie and Honey."

"I'm dating someone," he blurted out. "Rather seriously."

Her cautious smile and the faint smile in her magnificent eyes faltered for a moment. She absorbed the blow, straightened her shoulders and soldiered on. If there was one thing you learned among the poor, the sick and the desperate, it was to live in the _now_. No sense yearning for what could have been, maybe even what should have been. There was always hope for tomorrow would bring.

"I'm happy for you, Mart. Truly I am." Her voice was soft, and the clear, violet eyes were steady. "You don't owe me any explanations."

He was surprised to find himself wanting to offer some. He was surprised that he wanted her to rage against him, to denounce him as a cheat.

To give him the ammunition to blame _her._

"It's Sally Wellington," he said, hating himself for it. "She is going to the same college I am, journalism too. She wants to be a restaurant reviewer. We met at class and..." his voice faded. _Why was he telling her all this?_

"I remember Sally. From Uncle Monty's dude ranch. Wow. Small world, isn't it?" She glanced at the simple utilitarian watch adorning her wrist. It was quite a change from the gold that previously adorned her wrists and ears. "It's been nice catching up, Mart," she stood. "I need to get back home now. I think Honey was saying something about a welcome home party, and whenever it is, I hope you'll bring Sally."

He truly tried for some semblance normality between them. "Knowing my sister and Honey, I'm sure it will be soonest." The smile on his face felt forced and plastic.

"Not too soon, I'm afraid. Stephen is still trying to adjust." She didn't mean to say that. Didn't want to tell him yet. Because he was going to ask, and there had been enough emotion between them for the day. If she went home tense and unhappy, Stevie would pick up on it.

And of course, Mart did. "Stephen?" Who the hell was Stephen?

She took a deep breath. "I have a son, Mart. Stephen is my son." Her face was radiant, her smile glowing and in that instant, she transformed from the prettiest girl in Sleepyside to the most beautiful.

And then she simply walked out into the sunshine.


	17. If These Walls Could Talk

I never really understood that phrase. _"If these walls could talk."_ I mean, it's not like walls have mouths or anything. And they're _not_ animate. So really, how could we form speech?

I suppose that humans mean that we walls are ever-present, have been there through good times, bad times and all the times in-between. And boy, if we could give up our secrets, like a gaggle of women whispering at a coffee klatch, or a group of men imparting information (never gossip!) while going to the game… it would be most entertaining and informative.

But, you know, walls _do _speak. You just have to be a very special person to be able to listen.

Like _me_, for instance.

I began life as the gatehouse to Manor House, right up there on that big hill. Oh, those were the days! The dirt road leading up to the Big House, as I like to call it, was next to me. And such a nice, fancy iron gate going right across it.

The man who lived here was in charge of the gate, and what an important position _that_ was. He was the person who opened the gate to let someone through, or kept it tightly closed and impenetrable. Rain, sleet, snow; hot summer sun or chilly, blustery winter days, he kept watch. One man after another. Some died right in here, coughing and sneezing and calling for their mamas. Others just left and never came back.

I was so important until those belching, stinking automobiles began to replace the elegant carriages and the gleaming muscles of magnificent horseflesh. The Big House had something called a driveway built right down there to Glen Road. Those big fancy gates fell into disrepair and finally vanished underneath the regrowth of the encroaching forest.

And I did, too. I resigned myself to returning to the earth, suffering the indignities of mice gnawing at me, birds nesting in my eaves and the smell of dampness and decay and death.

_My_ death.

Then those two young girls found me. And suddenly, I was being fixed up, cleaned up and aired out. The girls brought back three boys, and eventually they were seven. There I was, being cherished again and used. I almost got scalped by an old tree once, but they mended me up nice and tight.

And oh, the things I heard in there. The things I_ saw_.

There were arguments, and near-fights. Frustration, exasperation, but the most wondrous love. And respect. I watched them grow, saw them through the seasons. All the while they were taking care of me and loving _me_, too.

I saw the way the red-haired man they called Jim would watch the pretty, curly-haired blonde girl, Trixie, with the most amazing longing in his eyes.

I saw her sobbing her eyes out on the day he left to go to someplace called university until she fell into an exhausted sleep. Her tears dampened the photo she removed from me and held against her breast.

I saw the argument between the man that looked so much like the blonde girl and the pretty dark-haired one they called Diana. I felt their sorrow at ending their relationship.

I saw the silent tears of the pretty girl - the one who brightened my eyes with curtains when they first found me, and quite a few times after that - after the quiet, dark-haired man brought home a girlfriend from the place called university. I saw the straightening of her shoulders after her storm of tears, and her resolve to face another day.

I saw Jim corner Trixie on his first weekend home from university, trapping her against me while he ravished her lips and murmured how he couldn't exist without her. And I watched as she gave back just as good as she got.

I saw Mart and Diana give each other those sly glances, and was a witness to their accidental meeting… and almost blushed at what happened _next_.

I saw the man in the black jacket, Dan, and the sad Honey move from just being friends and a shoulder to cry on to something much, much more.

Yup. I have all these secrets, and if you listen hard enough, you'll hear me whispering them in the night.


	18. Bus Stop

**_Bus stop, wet day, she's there, I say_**

**_Please share my umbrella_**

James Winthrop Frayne II was waiting at SUNY Westchester for the bus to take him back home. _Well_, he thought with a touch of bitterness, _not precisely home_. Home was a little farm in upstate Rochester, New York.

A little farm that now belonged to some _other_ family. He and his mother finally had to face facts and sell out. He begged and pleaded with his mother to let him leave school, get a job to help out, but she was adamant that he obtain a college education. So with a heavy heart, she put her late husband's family home up for sale.

They had a standing offer to move in with his dad's uncle. The man Jim himself was named after. A few weeks ago, a moving van picked up their meager possessions and trundled them down to a little town called Sleepyside. Now with the new semester starting, they didn't have enough cash for him to stay in the dorms, and they were too proud to accept the additional financial help Uncle James offered. Instead, he became a commuter student. Today was his first day taking the bus from school back down to Glen Road and the large mansion his uncle lived in. Ten Acres, a picturesque name.

The pouring rain suited his black mood quite nicely. A few moments later, a girl ran up to the bus stop. "I didn't miss the bus for Sleepyside, did I?" she asked him, out of breath.

She was standing in the rain, letting it soak her creamy skin and shimmer in her eyelashes. Obviously unprepared for the sodden weather, he watched as a raindrop tracked its way down her pretty face. "No, I think it's running a few minutes late."

"Okay! Thanks!" Her eyes were the biggest and bluest he ever saw and that smile of hers. Wow. It curled his toes.

He tore his green gaze away from her and remembered his manners. "Would you like to share my umbrella with me? You're getting soaked."

She laughed then, mischief lighting up her eyes. "A little rain won't make me melt. However, it will result in an uncomfortable ride home. Thank you. I'd love to. My name is Trixie."

"Shake. My name's Jim. Jim Frayne."

**_Bus stops, bus goes, she stays, love grows_**

**_Under my umbrella_**

Wonder of wonders, Ms. Trixie Belden lived right next door to him in that charming farmhouse he noted when he helped his mother move in.

Her blonde hair was plastered to her head and she didn't have on one lick of makeup, but she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

In fact, they were laughing and teasing as the rain drenched the streets around them, so deep into each other that when the bus finally did get there, they never even heard it.

And they laughed all the more for missing it.

**_All that summer we enjoyed it_**

**_Wind and rain and shine_**

Of course, the bus did not provide door-to-door service. That first day, Jim walked her up Glen Road to her door, gave her a small salute and sauntered off in the direction of Ten Acres. Things were suddenly looking up. Trixie seemed like she was a fun girl and he'd love to get to know her better. He frowned suddenly, wondering if she was seeing someone.

There was an easy way to find that out. All he had to do was ask tomorrow or the next day, whenever they met at the bus stop.

Trixie shut the front door to her house, a dreamy expression on her pretty face. Her mother came bustling into the room with a large terrycloth towel. "Hi sweetie! I kind of thought you might have forgotten your umbrella."

Thinking of the tall, handsome redhead with those astonishing green eyes that she just spent a few hours with, she smiled at her Moms. "Oh yeah, Moms. I forgot it and it was the best thing I've ever done in my entire life!"

"Tell me all about," her mother invited. Oh, my. There could be only one reason for her daughter's star-struck expression.

Trixie met a boy.

Had he known it, Jim Frayne wore an identical dreamy expression on his face when he walked into the large kitchen. Katie Frayne noticed immediately and smiled a little. "How was school today and how was it taking the bus home?"

"It was a little damp," Jim responded, his lips curving. "But it wasn't bad. It wasn't bad at all." Not when he got to meet the hot little blonde next door with a body to die for.

**_That umbrella, we employed it  
By August, she was mine_**

They met at the bus stop almost every day. Jim always brought the big black umbrella, just in case. She learned he was logical and just about planned out everything. He learned she was impulsive and intuitive.

They shared that umbrella in the sun and in the rain; first going to college and then taking the bus into town for their summer jobs. He learned that the petite blonde with the most beautiful long curls had two older brothers and one younger. She was best friends with the girl who lived in the big white house on the top of the hill.

Jim was gradually introduced to all the players in her life. Her brothers Brian and Mart; her best friends Honey Wheeler and Diana Lynch; and an ex-gang member named Daniel Mangan.

Jim was absorbed into the group without effort and it was real nice. But all he could think about was kissing those soft pink lips. And those wild, tousled curls! They danced around her head, full of the energy she radiated. He took to tugging on one of them, winding the spirals around his index finger and giving a gentle pull. He was fascinated by the fact it always sprang back to its original position.

And one day at the end of July, when they were waiting at the bus stop with the big black umbrella protecting them from the sun, he bent down from his great height and finally tasted those lips. They were as soft and sweet as he knew they would be, and if passersby in cars noted the umbrella drooping as the tall handsome man with red hair and the pretty lady whose hair shone like gold kissed passionately, they smiled to themselves. Young love!

**_Every mornin' I would see her waiting at the stop  
Sometimes she'd shopped and she would show me what she bought _**

**_All the people stared as if we were both quite insane  
Someday my name and hers are going to be the same_**

They fell in love under that umbrella. Katie Frayne adored the girl next door, the energetic Trixie Belden who so cherished her only son. Even grumpy Uncle James could not disapprove of the match he was sure his grand-nephew was about to make.

It was as plain as the freckles on his face.

Peter and Helen Belden knew that the most wonderful man in the world was destined to become their son-in-law, even before Jim asked their permission to marry their daughter. Trixie was head-over-heels in love with the boy next door, and things could not be any more perfect than that.

**_That's the way the whole thing started  
Silly but it's true  
Thinkin' of a sweet romance  
Beginning in a queue_**

"And that's how Mama and Daddy met, Jamie." Their young son was fascinated by the tale of two strangers meeting in the rain and falling in love. Why, it was almost better than Dr. Seuss! "Now go to sleep, honey."

Jim looked up to see his wife standing in the doorway, listening to him tell their tale. The ready tears were sparkling in her eyes as he grinned at her. He ran his large hand over her hard abdomen and kissed her luscious lips.

"C'mon, baby. Let's go to our room," his eyes glinted wickedly. Her tears were sparkling on her long lashes, as magically as the raindrops did when they first met.

"Going to our room caused all this," she laughed, pointed at her midsection, but allowed herself to be led to their bedroom.

**_Came the sun the ice was melting  
No more sheltering now  
Nice to think that that umbrella  
Led me to a vow_**

The umbrella was old and tattered, a relic, really. It certainly was not useful to keep the rain away. Instead, it was mounted in a shadowbox up over the fieldstone fireplace. And if people thought it was kind of strange, well, they just didn't know the whole story.

_Bus Stop is used without permission but very respectfully. Song By Herman's Hermits and Lyrics by Graham Gouldman. _


End file.
